Upon my Lord Chiefe Iustice his election of my Lady A. W. for his Mistresse.

HEare this, and tremble all
Vsurping Beauties, that create
A government Tyrannicall
In Loves free state,
Justice, hath to the sword of your edg'd eyes
His equall ballance joyn'd, his sage head lyes
In Loves soft lap, which must be just and wise.

Harke how the sterne Law breathes
Forth amorous sighs, and now prepares
No fetters, but of silken wreathes,
And, braded hayres;
His dreadfull Rods and Axes are exil'd
Whilst he sits crown'd with Roses, Love hath fil'de
His native roughnesse, Justice is growne milde.

The golden Age returnes,
Loves bowe, and quiver, uselesse lye,
His shaft, his brand, nor wounds, nor burnes,
And crueltie
Is sunke to Hell, the fayre shall all be kind,
Who loves, shall be belov'd, the froward mind
To a deformed shape shall be confin'd.

Astraea hath possest
An earthly seate, and now remaines
In Finthes heart, but Wentworths brest
That Guest containes;
With her she dwells, yet hath not left the skies,
Nor lost her Spheare, for, new-enthron'd she cryes
I know no Heaven but fayre Wentworths eyes,