A Short Hymn Upon The Birth Of Prince Charles

You that on Stars do look,
Arrest not there your sight,
Though Natures fairest Book,
And signed with propitious light;
Our Blessing now is more Divine,
Then Planets that at Noon did shine.

To thee alone be praise,
From whom our Joy descends,
Thou Chearer of our Days,
Of Causes first, and last of Ends;
To thee this May we sing, by whom
Our Roses from the Lilies bloom.

Upon this Royal Flower,
Sprung from the chastest Bed,
Thy glorious sweetness shower,
And first let Myrtles Crown his Head;
Then Palms and Lawrels wreath'd between;
But let the Cypress late be seen.

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poem by Henry Wotton
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An Ode To The King, At His Returning From Scotland To The Queen, After His Coronation There

Rouse up thy self, my gentle Muse,
Though now our green conceits be gray,
And yet once more do not refuse
To take thy Phrygian Harp, and play
In honour of this chearful Day.

Make first a Song of Joy and Love,
Which chastely flame in Royal Eyes;
Then tune it to the Spheres above
When the benignest Stars do rise,
And sweet Conjunctions grace the Skies.

To this let all good Hearts resound,
While Diadems invest his Head:
Long may he live, whose Life doth bound
More then his Laws, and better Lead
By high Example, then by Dread.

Long may He round about Him see
His Roses and His Lillies bloom:

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poem by Henry Wotton
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A Poem Written By Sir Henry Wotton In His Youth

O Faithless World, & thy more faithless part, a Woman's heart!
The true Shop of variety, where sits nothing but fits
And feavers of desire, and pangs of love, which toyes remove.
Why, was she born to please, or I to trust, words writ in dust?
Suffering her Eyes to govern my despair, my pain for air;
And fruit of time rewarded with untruth, the food of youth.
Untrue she was : yet, I believ'd her eyes (instructed spies)
Till I was taught, that Love was but a School to breed a fool.
Or sought she more by triumphs of denial, to make a trial
How far her smiles commanded my weakness? yield and confess,
Excuse no more thy folly; but for Cure, blush and endure
As well thy shame, as passions that were vain: and think, 'tis gain
To know, that Love lodg'd in a Womans brest, Is but a guest.

poem by Henry Wotton
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Sir Henry Wotton, and Serjeant Hoskins Riding On The Way

Ho. Noble, lovely, vertuous Creature,
Purposely so fram'd by Nature
To enthral your servants wits.

Wo. Time must now unite our hearts:
Not for any more deserts,
But because (me thinks) it fits.

Ho. Dearest treasure of my thought,
And yet wert thou to be bought
With my life, thou wert not dear.

Wo. Secret comfort of my mind,
Doubt no longer to be kind,
But be so and so appear.

Ho. Give me love for love again,
Let our loves be clear and plain,
Heaven is fairest, when 'tis clearest.

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On A Bank As I Sate A Fishing: A Description Of The Spring

And now all Nature seem'd in love,
The lusty sap began to move;
New juice did stir th'embracing Vines,
And Birds had drawn their Valentines:
The jealous Trout, that low did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled flie:
There stood my Friend, with patient skill
Attending of his trembling quill.
Already were the Eves possest
With the swift Pilgrims daubed nest.
The Groves already did rejoyce
In Philomels triumphing voice.
The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smil'd.
June takes her neat-rub'd Pale, and now
She trips to milk the Sand-red Cow;
Where for some sturdy foot-ball Swain,
June strokes a sillabub or twain.
The Fields and Gardens were beset
With Tulip, Crocus, Violet:

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poem by Henry Wotton
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The Character of a Happy Life

How happy is he born or taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill;

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death
Untied unto the world with care
Of princes' grace or vulgar breath;

Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
The deepest wounds are given by praise,
By rule of state, but not of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruins make accusers great;

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poem by Henry Wotton
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A Dialogue Betwixt God And The Soul

Soul.
Whilst my Souls eye beheld no light
But what stream'd from thy gracious sight
To me the worlds greatest King,
Seem'd but some little vulgar thing.

God.
Whilst thou prov'dst pure; and that in thee
I could glass all my Deity;
How glad did I from Heaven depart,
To find a lodging in thy heart!

S. Now Fame and Greatness bear the sway,
('Tis they that hold my prisons Key):
For whom my soul would die, might she
Leave them her Immortalitie.

G. I, and some few pure Souls conspire,
And burn both in a mutual fire,
For whom I'd die once more, ere they

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poem by Henry Wotton
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Elizabeth of Bohemia

YOU meaner beauties of the night,
   That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
   You common people of the skies;
   What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,
   That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood
   By your weak accents; what 's your praise
   When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,
   By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the year,
   As if the spring were all your own;
   What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen
   In form and beauty of her mind,

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Tears At The Grave Of Sir Albertus Morton (Who Was Buried At Southampton) Wept By Sir H. Wotton.

Silence (in truth) would speak my sorrow best,
For, deepest wounds can least their feelings tell;
Yet, let me borrow from mine own unrest,
But time to bid him, whom I lov'd, farewel.

O my unhappy lines! you that before
Have serv'd my youth to vent some wanton cries,
And now congeal'd with grief, can scarce implore
Strength to accent! Here my Albertus lies.

This is the sable Stone, this is the Cave,
And womb of earth that doth his Corps embrace;
While others sing his praise, let me engrave
These bleeding Numbers to adorn the place.

Here will I paint the Characters of woe,
Here will I pay may tribute to the Dead,
And here my faithful tears in showers shall flow,
To humanize the Flints whereon I tread.

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poem by Henry Wotton
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This Hymn Was Made By Sir H. Wotton, When He Was An Ambassador At Venice, In The Time of A Great Sickness There

Eternal Mover, whose diffused Glory,
To shew our groveling Reason what thou art,
Unfolds it self in Clouds of Natures story,
Where Man, thy proudest Creature, acts his part:
Whom yet (alas) I know not why, we call
The Worlds contracted sum, the little all.

For, what are we but lumps of walking clay?
Why should we swel? whence should our spirits rise
Are not bruit Beasts as strong, and Birds as gay,
Trees longer liv'd, and creeping things as wise?
Only our souls was left an inward light,
To feel our weakness, and confess thy might.

Thou then, our strength, Father of life and death,
To whom our thanks, our vows, our selves we owe,
From me thy tenant of this fading breath,
Accept those lines which from thy goodness flow:
And thou that wert thy Regal Prophets Muse,
Do not thy Praise in weaker strains refuse.

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poem by Henry Wotton
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