But now our trumpets thou haft made to found Is exercifing arms and wars The torch extinguish'd here, we lent to others oil. Whose flame through all the air doth go, And yet the fun himself the while no fire does know. XV. Befides, the glories of thy peace Are not in number nor in value lefs. Not only lanc'd but heal'd the wound, 3 Made us again as healthy and as found: When they their ropes and helms had left, And And floods came roaring in with mighty found, And favedft those that would themselves have drown'd; When thou hadft greater caufe to fear: XVI. Nor didft thou only for thy age provide, Our after-times and late pofterity Shall pay unto thy fame as much as we; They too are made by thee. When fate did call thee too a higher throne, And when thy mortal work was done, When heaven did say it, and thou must be gone, Who might (if any could) make us forget thy loss; Had he not been Not only to thy blood, but virtue kin, Not only heir unto thy throne, but mind : 'Tis he fhall perfect all thy cares, And with a finer thread weave out thy loom : Their flavery and fears, Led them through their pathlefs road; Guided himself by God, H'as brought them to the borders; but a fecond hand Did fettle and secure them in the promis'd land. To a Perfon of Honour (Mr. EDWARD HOWARD) upon his Incomparable, Incomprehenfible Poem, intituled The BRITISH PRINCES. YOUR OUR book our old knight-errants fame revives, All rumours ftrength their prowefs did out-go, To praise the Welsh the world must now combine, (In British paint), none could more dreadful be: You You that can make immortal by your song, In all things elfe you borrow help from none: A fubject new, writ in the newest way. Go forth, great author, for the world's delight; Teach it, what none e'er taught you, how to write ; They talk strange things that ancient poets did; How trees and stones they into buildings lead : For poems to raise cities, now, 'tis hard, But yours, at least, will build half Paul's churchyard. On his MISTRESS DROWN'D. SWEET ftream, that doft with equal pace Both thyself fly and thyself chace, Forbear awhile to flow, And liften to my woe. Then go and tell the fea that all its brine Inform it that the gentler dame, I' th' glory of her bud Has pafs'd the fatal flood, Death by this only stroke triumphs above Alas, alas! I must give o'er, My fighs will let me add no more. Go on, sweet stream, and henceforth rest THE |