To the King (“So his bold tube”).

So his bold tube man to the sun applied,
And spots unknown in the bright star descried;
Showed they obscure him, while too near they please,
And seem his courtiers, are but his disease;
Through optic trunk the planet seemed to hear,
And hurls them off e'er since in his career.
And you, great Sir, that with him empire share,
Sun of our world, as he the Charles is there,
Blame not the Muse that brought those spots to sight,
Which, in your splendour hid, corrode your light;
(Kings in the country oft have gone astray,
Nor of a peasant scorned to learn the way.)
Would she the unattended throne reduce,
Banishing love, trust, ornament, and use?
Better it were to live in cloister's lock,
Or in fair fields to rule the easy flock:
She blames them only who the Court restrain,
And where all England serves, themselves would reign.
Bold and accursed are they who all this while
Have strove to isle the monarch from this isle,
And to improve themselves by false pretence,
About the common prince have raised a fence;
The kingdom from the crown distinct would see,
And peel the bark to burn at last the tree.
As Ceres corn, and Flora is the spring,
Bacchus is wine, the Country is the King.
Not so does rust insinuating wear,
Nor powder so the vaulted bastion tear,
Nor earthquakes so an hollow isle o'erwhelm.
As scratching courtiers undermine a realm,
And through the palace's foundations bore,
Burrowing themselves to hoard their guilty store.
The smallest vermin make the greatest waste,
And a poor warren once a city rased.
But they who born to virtue and to wealth,
Nor guilt to flattery binds, nor want to stealth;
Whose generous conscience, and whose courage high,
Does with clear counsels their large souls supply;
Who serve the King with their estates and care,
And as in love on parliaments can stare;
Where few the number, choice is there less hard;
Give us this Court, and rule without a guard.