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Royal Astrea makes our day
HYMN IV.

E ternal with her beams, nor niaj

G ross darkness overcome her ;
To the Month of May.

I now perceive why some do write,

No country hath so fort a night,
E Ach day of thine, sweet month of May,

A s England hath in sunimer.
L ove makes a solemn holy-day.
I will perform like duty,
Sith thou resemblest every way
A frea, queen of beauty.

HYMN VII.

To the Rose.
B oth your fresh beauties do partake ;
E ither's aspect doth summer make,

E re of the garden, queen of fox'rs,
Thoughts of young love awaking;

L ove's cup wherein lie nectar's pow'rs,
H earts you both do cause to ake,

Ingender'd first of nectar;
A nd yet be pleas'd with aching.

S weet nurse-child of the spring's young hours,

A nd beauty's fair character.
Right dear art thou, and so is she,
E 'en like attracting sympathy,

B lest jewel that the earth doth wear,
Gains unto both like dearness ;

E ’n when the brave young sun draws near,
I ween this made antiquity,

To her hot love pretending ;
Ņ ame thee, Sweet May of Majesty,

Himself likewise like form doth bear,
Á s being both like in clearness.

A t rising and descending.
R ose of the Queen of Love belov'd;

E ngland's great kings divinely mov'd,
HYMN V.

Gave roses in their banner ;

I t shew'd that beauty's rofe indeed,
To tbe Lark.

Now in this age should them succeed,
E ARLY cheerful mounting lark,

A nd reign in more fwect manner.
L ight's gentle ufher, morning's clerk,
I n merry notes delighting;
s tint awhile thy song, and hark,

HYMN VIII.
A nd learn my new inditing.

To all the Princes of Europes
Bear up this hymn, to heav'n it bear,
E 'en up to heav'n, and fing it there,

E urope, the earth's sweet paradise;
To heav'n each morning bear it;

L et all thy kings that would bc wife,
Have it set to some fweet fphere,

In politic devotion,
A nd let the angels hear it.

S ail hither to observe her eyes,

A nd mark her heav'niy motion.
Renown'd Altrea, that great name,
xceeding great in worth and fame,

B rave princess of this civil age,
Great worth hath so renown'a it;

E nter into this pilgrimage :
It is Aftrea's name I praise ;

This saint's congue's an oracle ;
Now then, sweet lark, do thou it raise,

Her eye hath made a prince a pages
A od in high heaven resound it.

A nd works each day a miracle.
R aise buč your Icoks to her, and see

E 'en the true beams of majefty,
HYMN VI.

G rear princes, mark her duly;

I f all the world you do survey,
To the Nightingale.

N o forchead spreads fo bright a ray,

A nd notes a prince so truly.
I r’ry night from ev'n to morn,
I ove's chorister amid the thorn
I s now so fweet a singer,

HYMN IX.
S o sweet, as for her long I fcorni
A pollo's voice and finger.

To Flora.
B ut nightingale, fith you delight

EMPRESS of Aow'rs, tell where away
E ver to watch the starry night,

L ies your sweet court this May,
Tell all the stars of heaven,

In Greenwich garden alleys:
H eaven never had a star fo bright,

Since there the heav'nly pow'rs do play
A s now to earth is given,

A nd haunt no other valleys,

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eauty, virtue, majesty,
loquent Mofes, three times three,

HYMN XII. he new fresh hours, and graces,

To ber Pixture. ave pleasures in the place to be, bove all other places.

E XTREME was his audacity,

L itele his skill tha: finish'd thee; oses and lilies did them draw,

I am asham d and sorry, re they divine Astrea law,

S o dull her counterfeit should be, ay flow'rs they, fought for pleasure :,

A nd she so full of glory. nitead of gath'ring crowns of flow'rs, ow gather thy Altræa's dowers,

But here are colours ted and white, nd bear to heav'n that treasure.

Each line, and each proportion right;
T hese lines, this red and whiteness,
Have wanting yet a life and light,

A majesty, and brightness.
HYMN X.

Rude counterfeit, I then did err;

E'en now when I would needs infer
To the Month of September.

Great boldness in thy maker :

I did mistake, he was not bold, Acu month hath praise in some degree;

N or durft his eyes her eyes behold, et May to others seem to be

A ud this made him mistake her. n sense the sweetest season ;. eptember thou art bett to me, nd best doth please my reason.

HYMN XIII. ut neither for thy corn nor wide xtol I thuse mild days of thine,

Of ber Mind. hough corn and wine might praise thee, eav'n gives thee honour more divine,

E ARTH, now adieu, my ravish'd thought nd higher fortunes raise thee.

L ifted to heav'n sets thee ač naught;

Infinite is my longing, enown'd art thou (fweet Month) for this, Secrets of angels to be taught, mong thy days her birth-day is,

A nd things to heav'n belonging. race, plenty, peace, and honour n one fair hour with her were born,

B rought down from heav'n of angels kind, qw fince they still her crown adorn,

E 'en now I do admire her mind, ind Gill attend upon her.

This is my contemplation,
Her clear sweet spirit which is refin'd, i
A bovc hdman creation.

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R adiant virtues, if your light

B chold, if you can judge of it, E nfecble the best judgment's sight,

E v'n that great store-house of her wit, Great splendor above measure

That beautiful large table, I s in the mind, from whence you flow :

H er memory, wherein is writ No wit may have access to know,

A ll knowledge admirable.
A nd view so bright a treasure.

Read this fair book, and you shall learn
E xquisite skill; if you discern,

G ain heav'n by this discerning;
HYMN XV.

In such a mentory divine,
Of ber Wit.

Nature did form the Muses nine,

A nd Pallas queen of learning.
E ye of that mind most quick and clear,
I ike heaven's eye which from his sphere
I nto all things priech,
S ees through all things ev'ry where,
A nd all their natures tricth.

HYMN XVIII.
B right image of an angel's wit,

of ber Fancy. E xceeding sharp and swift like it, T hings instantly discerning:

E XQUISITE curiosity, H aving a nature infinite,

L ook on thyself with judging eye, A nd yet increas'd by learning.

I faught be faulty, leave it :

S o delicate a fantasy
Rebound upon thyself thy light,

A s this, will ftraight perceive it.
E njoy thine own sweet precious light,
Give us but some reflection;

B ecause her temper is so fine,
I t is cnough for us if we,

E ndow'd with harmonies divine; Now in her speech, now policy,

Therefore if discord strike it,
A dmire thine high perfection.

H er true proportions do repine,
A nd sadly do misike it.

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Right princely virtue fit to reign,
HYMN XX.

E athroniz'd in her fpirit remain,
Of tbe Paffions of the Heart,

Guiding our fortunes ever ;

If we chis star once cease to fee, E XAMINE not th' infcrutable heart,

No doubt our state will shipwreck'd be, Light Muse of her, though she in part

A nd torn and sunk for ever.
mpart it to the subject;
Search not, although from heav'n thou art,
A nd this an heav'nly object.

HYMN XXIII,
B at since she hath a heart, we know,

Of ber Fufice.
E re some passions thence do flow,
Though ever ruled with honour;

E xil'd Astrea's come again,
H er judgment reigns, they wait below,

L o here she doth all things maintain A nd fix their eyes upon ber.

I n number, weight, and measure :

S he rules us with delightful pain,
Rectify'd so, they in their kind

A nd we obey with pleasure.
E ncrease each virtue of her mind,
Govern'd with mild tranquillity;

B

у love she rules more than by law, In all the regions under heav'n,

E 'en her great mercy breedeth awe; No flate doth bear itself so even,

This is her sword and sceptre;
A nd with so sweet facility.

H erewith the hearts did ever draw,
A nd this guard ever kept

her.

Reward doth fit'in her right band,
HYMN XXI.

E ach virtue thence takes her garland

Gather'd in honour's garden :
Of the innumerable Virtues of ber Mind.

In her left hand (wherein should be

N ought but the sword) sits clemency, E ke thou proceed in these sweet pains

A nd conquer's vice with pardon.
L earn Muse how many drops it rains
In cold and moist December;
Sum up May flow'rs, and August's grains,
A nd grapes of mild September.

HYMN XXIV.
B ear the sea's fand in memory,

Of ber Magnanimity.
E arth's grass, and the stars in sky,
The little moats which mounted,

E v'n as her state, so is her mind,
H ang in the beams of Phæbus eye,

L ifred above thc vulgar kind, And never can be counted.

I t treads prood Fortune under ;

S un-like it fits above the wind,
R ecount these numbers numberless,

A bove the storms and thunder.
E re thou her virtue can express,
Great wits this count will cumber.

B rave spirit, large heart, admiring nought, I nftru& thyself in numb'ring Ichools;

E fteeming each thing as it ought, Now courtiers use to beg for fools,

T hat swelleth not, nor shrinketh :
All such as cannot number.

Honour is always in her thought,
A nd of great things the thinkech.

R ocks, pillars, and heaven's axle-tree,
HYMN XXII.

E xemplify her constancy;

Great changes never change her :
Of ber Wisdom.

In her sex fears are wont to rise,

N ature permits, virtue denies, E agle ey'd wisdom, life's loadstar,

A od scorns the face of danger. Looking near on things afar;

ove's best belov'd daughter, S hows to her spirit all that are,

HYMN XXV. A s Jove himself hach caught her.

Of ber Moderation, By this straight rule she rectifies

E MPress of kingdoms though she be, E ach thought that in her heart doth rise ; Larger is her sov'reignty, T bis is her clear true mirror,

If the herself do govern; Her looking-glass, wherein the fries

Subje&t unto herself is fhe, A ll forms of truth and error,

A nd of herself true sovereign.

Y y iij

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B eauty's crown though she do wear,

I s dazzled with the giory E xalted into Fortune's chair,

$ hining in this gay poely, Thron'd like the queen of pleasure :

A nd little golden story.
H er virtues still possess her ear,
A nd counsel her to measure.

B ehold how my proud quill doth shed

E ternal nectar on her head : Reason, if the incarnate were,

T he pomp of coronation E v'n Reason's self could never bear

H ath not such prir's her fame to spread, Greatness with moderation ;

A s this my admiration.
In her one temper ftill is féen,
No liberty claims she as queen,

R espect my pen as free and frank A nd thews no alteration.

E xpecting not reward nor thank,
Great wonder only moves it;

I never made it 'mercenary,
HYMN XXVI.

N or should my Muse this burthen cartį

A s hir'd but that the loves it.
To Envy.
r, go weep; my Muse and I
Laugh chee to Scorn, thy feeble eye

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