To His Sacred Majesty

IF in this Storme of joy and pompous Throng,
This Nymph (great King) doth come to Thee so neare
That thy harmonious Eares Her accents heare,
Give Pardon to Her hoarse and lowly Song:
Faine would shee Trophees to Thy Vertues reare;
But for this stately taske She is not strong,
And her Defects Her high Attempts do wrong,
Yet as she could She makes thy Worth appeare.
So in a Map is shown this flowry Place;
So wrought in Arras by a Virgins Hand
With Heaven and blazing Stars doth Atlas stand,
So drawn by Char-coale is Narcissus Face:
She like the Morn may be to some bright Sun,
The Day to perfect that's by her begun.