Vpon my Lord of Buckinghams Shield at a Tilting, his Impresse being a Bird of Paradise

See how this Bird erects his constant flight
Aboue the Cloudes, aspiring to the light:
As in a quiet Paradise he dwels
In that pure Region, where no winde rebels:
And fearing not the thunder, hath attain'd
The Palace, where the Demigods remaind:
This Bird belongs to you, thrice glorious King;
From you the beauties of his Feathers spring:
No vaine ambition lifts him vp so high,
But rais'd by force of your attractiue Eye;
He feedes vpon your Beames, and takes delight,
Not in his owne Ascent, but in your sight.
Let them, whose motion to the Earth declines,
Describe your Circle by their baser lines,
And enuy at the brightnesse of your seate:
He cannot liue diuided from your heate.