Short Poems

And here too growes a Tree, that may in time
Beare golden Apples, in a colder clime
Then is Hesperia in; for so presage
Thy blossoms ( Cotton ) and thy spring of age.
Then let kind fortune give thy worth full sayles,
Till Honour greete thee with as many hayles,
As ere Sejanus had: and let thy name
Become th'example of well gotten fame.

That curious Webbe which proud Arachne spunne,
Or that which chast Penelope begunne,
Match not this piece whose worth exceedes all choice,
That Pallas to owne it may well rejoyce
Arachnes silken webbe descipherd plaine
Joves scapes, and what might thee Olympists staine
But (worthy Webbe ) all beaut'ous graces bee
Both morrall, and Divine be discribed in thee.

To ring out thy great frame, if I had skill,
The E'cho thereof should our Iland fill
So consonant's thy vertue to thy wit,
And so thy outward feature graceth it,
That my Muse may one sillable adde well
Unto thy Surname, and call thee Le-bell.

As did love wounded Echo dote upon
The beautiful Narcissus , that lov'd none;
So doth my Muse affect your worthy parts
Applauded every where, by tongues and hearts.
And though I in your praise come short of many
Yet may my love to you ranke me with any.

First, if I might safely crave this worlds pelfe;
To be belov'd next would I wish my selfe,
And rather then the first alone I'de chuse,
The second I would take and that refuse.
But you Sir Robert have fates blessing got,
Y'are wealthy, and belov'd, yea and what not
Nor ever were the Starres more just (I swear't)
With such great goods, to trust such good desert.

Tis meete [a] Virgils Quill should write of thee,
Where such a concurrence of G[r]aces bee;
That were all Gentrie out of frame, we might
By thee take patterne, how to set it right.
Thy worth a brisker Muse then mine requires;
Then let them sing while mine alone admires.

Blame not my Muse, thou that dost find thy name
Not Marshal'd here, as thou wouldst have the same:
No blemish tis to thy repute: for (know it)
I act no Herald here (Sir) but a Poet.

Songs of the woods, verses of those dear days
Now gone, of that dear region which the hand
Of smooth improvement almost hath erased,
Songs of the woods, from out my heart ye sprang!

Dismiss us with thy blessing, Lord,
Help us to feed upon thyword;
All that has been amiss forgive,
And let thy truth within us live.
Tho' we are guilty, thou art good,
Cleanse all our sins in Jesus' blood;
Give ev'ry burden'd soul release,
And bid us all depart in peace.

The few who love are stronger far
Than all the rest who hate:
So, robed in flame, I do my work,
Accept my cross, and wait.