A Congratulation to my Lord Marquesse of Buckingham, at the Birth of his Daughter

My lines describ'd your marriage as the Spring,
Now like the Reapers, of your fruite I sing
And shew the Haruest of your constant loue,
In this sweete Armefull which your ioy shall proue:
Her Sex is signe of plenty, and fore-runnes
The pleasing hope of many noble Sonnes:
Who farre abroad their branches shall extend,
And spread their race, till time receiue an end.
Be euer blest, (faire Childe) that hast begunne
So white a threed, by hands of Angels spunne:
Thou art the first, and wilt the rest beguile;
For thou shalt rauish with a chearefull smile
Thy Parents hearts, not wonted to such blisse:
And steale the first fruites of a tender kisse.