An Epigram on the Prince's Birth, 1630

And art thou born, brave babe? blest be thy birth,
That so hath crown'd our hopes, our spring, and earth,
The bed of the chaste Lily and the Rose!
What month than May was fitter to disclose
This prince of flow'rs? Soon shoot thou up, and grow
The same that thou art promised, but be slow,
And long in changing. Let our nephews see
Thee quickly come the garden's eye to be,
And still to stand so. Haste now, envious moon,
And interpose thyself, (care not how soon)
Haste now, envious moon,
And threat the great eclipse; two hours but run,
Sol will re-shine: if not, Charles hath a son.