An Ode to the Queen

High on a Throne of Glittering Ore
Exalted by Almighty Fate,
Out-shining the bright Jem she wore;
The gracious Gloriana sat.

The dazling Beams of Majesty
Too •ierce for mortal Eyes to see,
She veil'd, and with a smiling Brow,
Thus taught th' admiring World below.

Virtue is still the chiefest good,
And power, should only be her dress,
State, is a Fever to the Blood;
Free Conscience is the solid Bliss:

Glory is but a flattering Dream
Of Wealth, that is not, though it seem:
False vision, whose vain Joys do make
Poor Mortals poorer, when they wake.

The fawning Crowd of Slaves, that bow
With Praise, could n'er my Sense controul;
Vast Pyramids of State seem low,
So much above it sits my Soul.

She spake, whilst Gods unseen that stood,
Admiring one so great so good,
Flew straight to Heaven, and all along,
Bright Gloriana was their Song.

Bright Gloriana all along,
Bright Gloriana was their Song.