New Libanus. 1679

IF I'm o're-bold, Zeal makes the errour less;
For Zeal is but Devotion in excess.
If it more forward prest than you requir'd,
'Tis my Soul's warmth by agitation fir'd,
Such Zeal, and true Devotion, are the same;
Or only differ, as do Heat, and Flame;
That cherishes it self; but Zeal incites
The World, to imitate its blazing lights.
Praises to sing, and Powers to admire,
Are the chief Descants of the heav'nly Quire.

'Tis fame enough, that I have led the way,
And tun'd the Strings for skilful hands to play.
They may advance th' inventions of my Muse:
As Sciences improve with time, and use.
In primitive Professors, all confess
Their Zeal devouter, tho their Knowledge less.
By no Divinity inspir'd, but you;
I am your Poet, and your Prophet too.
Rare Subject! where all Poetry may strain;
And never be asperst, that it does feign.
Where Fancy most exalted, seems to be
Plain Demonstration, and true History.
It easie is for Prophets to divine;
When blessings clearly through your Actions shine.
Bright Issue, from such Springs as surely streams,
As Sol and Luna propagate their beams.

Belvoir's an Orb so great, Both there unite;
And thence your Infant-Stars derive their Light.
As glorious, and as lasting, may they prove;
Those hopeful Products of your mutual love.
Great-Rutland, with these Prospects clos'd his Eyes;
And joyfull, like prophetick Iacob, dyes.

How should we celebrate your precious Wombe;
That this Age blesses, and the next to come?
Past Ages fitting recompences found;
Bellies of fruitful Princesses were crown'd.
O! that your Royal Name-sake could but set
A Crown as sure, as you a Coronet!
Your pregnant Soil, rich as are Indian Beds;
Where one Rose blows, soon as another sheds.
Fruitful as flowing Nilus, that ne'r swells,
But future blessings to its Country tells.
Like Gideon's Fleece, drencht with Coelestial dew;
Whilst tears are all the Moisture others knew.
By friendly Fate, your happy Lord's allow'd
To meet a Iuno in a fruitful Cloud.
Fruitful as those i' th' Spring when blessings pours,
Upon the Earth, and Silver melts in show'rs.

Nor are your poor, by these expences grown;
No more, than mid-day-beams exhaust the Sun.
What issues from your Orb adds to your shine:
As fragrant Blossoms crown the Gessamine.
You, by those dear reflections, are more bright:
So Stars (those seeds o' th' Sun) rob not his light.
Nay you are fairer, as more happy found:
Some Seeds there are improve the Mother-Ground.

You, than the Foundress, I should more have prais'd,
Since you uphold the Fabrick that she rais'd.
She, like Pigmalion did the Image give;
But you the Goddess are that makes it live.