A thanksgiuing for the deliuerance of our Soueraigne, King Iames, from a dangerous accident, Ianuary 8

O Gracious Maker, on whose smiles or frownes
Depends the Fate of Scepters and of Crownes
Whose hand not onely holds the hearts of Kings,
But all their steps are shadow'd with thy wings.
To thee immortall thanks three Sisters giue,
For sauing him, by whose deare life they liue.
First, England crown'd with Roses of the Spring,
An off'ring like to Abels gift will bring:
And vowes that she for thee alone will keepe
Her fattest Lambes, and Fleeces of her sheepe.
Next, Scotland triumphs, that she bore and bred
This Iles delight, and wearing on her head
A wreath of Lillies gather'd in the field,
Presents the Min'rals which her mountaines yeeld.
Last, Ireland like Terpsichore attir'd
With neuer-fading Lawrell, and inspir'd
By true Apollos heat, a Paean sings,
And kindles zealous flames with siluer strings.
This day a sacrifice of praise requires,
Our brests are Altars, and our ioyes are fires.
That sacred Head, so oft, so strangely blest
From bloody plots, was now (O feare!) deprest
Beneath the water, and those Sunlike beames
Were threat'ned to be quencht in narrow streames.
Ah! who dare thinke, or can indure to heare
Of those sad dangers, which then seem'd so neare?
Vuhat Pan would haue preferu'd our flocks increase
From Wolues? What Hermes could with words of peace,
Cause whetted swords to fall from angry hands,
And shine the Starre of calmes in Christian Lands?
But Thou, whose Eye to hidden depths extends,
To shew that he was made for glorious ends,
Hast rays'd him by thine All-commanding arme,
Not onely safe from death, but free from harme.