How shall I then begin, or where conclude, To draw a fame so truly circular? For in a round, what order can be shewed, Where all the parts so equal perfect are? VI. His grandeur he derived from heaven alone; For he was great, ere fortune made him so: And wars, like mists that rise against the sun, Made him but greater seem, not greater grow. VII. No borrowed bays his temples did adorn, But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring; Nor was his virtue poisoned soon as born, With the too early thoughts of being king. VIII. Fortune, (that easy mistress to the young, But to her ancient servants coy and hard,) Him at that age her favourites ranked among, When she her best-loved Pompey did discard.[10] IX. He, private, marked the faults of others' sway, And set as sea-marks for himself to shun; Not like rash monarchs, who their youth betray By acts their age too late would wish undone. X. And yet dominion was not his design; We owe that blessing, not to him, but heaven, Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join; Rewards, that less to him, than us, were given. XI. Our former chiefs, like sticklers of the war, First sought to inflame the parties, then to poise: The quarrel loved but did the cause abhor; And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.[11] XII. War, our consumption, was their gainful trade; We inward bled whilst they prolonged our pain; He fought to end our fighting, and essayed To staunch the blood, by breathing of the vein.[12] XIII. Swift and resistless through the land he past, Like that bold Greek, who did the East subdue; And made to battles such heroic haste, As if on wings of victory he flew. XIV. He fought, secure of fortune as of fame, Till by new maps the island might be shewn; Of conquests, which he strewed where'er he came, Thick as the galaxy with stars is sown.[13] XV. His palms, though under weights they did not stand, Still thrived;[14] no winter could his laurels fade: Heaven, in his portrait, shewed a workman's hand, And drew it perfect, yet without a shade. XVI. Peace was the prize of all his toil and care, Which war had banished, and did now restore: Bolognia's walls thus mounted in the air, To seat themselves more surely than before.[15] XVII. Her safety rescued Ireland to him owes;[16] And treacherous Scotland, to no interest true, Yet blest that fate which did his arms dispose Her land to civilize, as to subdue.[17] XVIII. Nor was he like those stars which only shine, When to pale mariners they storms portend; He had his calmer influence, and his mien Did love and majesty together blend. XIX.