Thofe fields of fea, that wash'd our shores, Were plow'd and reap'd by other hands than ours: To us, the liquid mafs, Which doth about us run, As it is to the fun, Only a bed to fleep on was: And not as now a powerful throne, To shake and fway the world thereon. Our princes in their hand a globe did fhew, But not a perfect one, Compos'd of earth and water too. But thy commands the floods obey'd, Not make her equal, but a flave to thee. And now the conquer'd fea doth pay More tribute to thy Thames than that unto the sea. XIV. 'Till now our valour did ourselves more hurt; Our wounds to other nations were a sport; And as the earth, our land produc'd Iron and steel, which fhould to tear ourselves be us❜d: Our strength within itself did break, Like thundering cannons crack, And kill'd those that were near, While th' enemies fecur'd and untouch'd were. But But now our trumpets thou haft made to found 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, By its mariners endanger'd most ; 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 cause 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 fay it, and thou must be gone, Who might (if any could) make us forget thy lofs; 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 : So one did bring the chofen people from Their flavery and fears, Led them through their pathless road; Guided himself by God, H'as brought them to the borders; but a fecond hand Did fettle and fecure them in the promis'd land. To a Person of Honour (Mr. EDWARD HOWARD) upon his Incomparable, Incomprehenfible Poem, intituled The BRITISH PRINCES. You OUR book our old knight-errants fame revives, To praife the Welsh the world must now combine, (In British paint), none could more dreadful be: You You that can make immortal by your fong, In all things elfe you borrow help from none : Go forth, great author, for the world's delight; ; But yours, at least, will build half Paul's churchyard. S On his MISTRESS DROWN'D. WEET ftream, that doft with equal pace Both thyself fly and thyfelf 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, |