Or A preparation to King IAMES his Royall Coronation.

Aspice venturo laetentur vt omniaseclo.
[French fleur-de-lis surmounted by crown]

Imprinted at London for Tho­mas Pauier. 1603.

Englands wedding garment, or a preparation to King Iames his Coronation.

CEase sad laments, King Brutus race,
Deplore no more your blessed Queene,
Salute your spring-tide welcome King,
She dwels where ioyes are euer seene.
When good Eliza liu'd, her winged
Fame from earth did mount on hie:
Now she is deade, her heauen-borne soule,
Is soar'd aloft aboue the skie.
Scarce had the dolefull bell rung out,
Our Queene Elizaes mournefull knell,
But Prince-borne Iames our King proclaim'd,
Our feare soone past, and all was well.
God saue King Iames, glad English crie,
Let Scots the like and Irish say,
His glory shine as beamed sunne,
Whilst starrie night succeedeth day.
We lost a pearlesse pearle, but we
A Iem of price haue got againe,
Of much more worth then can be found,
In Golden mine, or Ocean maine.
Spring England still with budding peace,
For thou art blest with peaceful King,
God saue his Grace, let voyces chaunt,
Let Trumpets sound, and Belles out ring.
In Spring of Infant age, Prince Iames
Of Scots was croun'd their King,
In Spring of yeare he comes to vs,
When birds their merrie carrols sing.
What doth the springing yeare presage,
But that our Spring proclaimed King:
Will store of sommer-fruites, to vs
Of blisfull peace and plentie bring.
Oh mightie Ioue, with dazled eyes,
We may admire thy workes of wonder:
Our Sunne begins to shine, when we
Dread winter stormes and cracks of thunder.
When faire Eliza di'de, Apollo
Coucht his golden tressed head:
When commons cri'd, God saue the King,
His goldie-lockes abroad he spread.
As thick as Bees in sommer swarme,
Or Blossomes hang on blooming tree:
So thicke likewise great troupes will runne,
Thy royall crowning day to see.
Eliza whilome was, but now
King Iames is Englands cheefest ioy,
Ioues winged guard his throne attend,
And him defend from all anoy.
What newes said one? sad newes said some,
Our Queene is sicke, our Queene is dead:
Alas, said all true English harts,
Then Englands ioy from vs is fled.
But when the bright resplendant sunne,
Had chast these darkesome cloudes away,
We cri'd aloud, God saue our King,
Oh blessed time, thrise happy day.
The Red Rose and the White doe now,
And still we hope shall flourish long,
And rare exploites of Henries race,
for euer grace our Britaine song.
The English, Scots, and Irish true,
Of three are now combin'd in one,
Their hartes a true loue knot fast knit,
All former malice now is gone.
As visage and the phrase of toung,
Twixt Scots and English neere agree,
So guider of all hartes, their hartes
Conioyne, that loyall they may bee.
You rebell Irish rout, sheath vp
Your blades, shed teares, for mercie sue:
Your gracefull King will graunt you grace,
So you to him proue iust and true.
Our friends are glad, our foes now feare,
The Orphant smile, and widdow sing:
That after sweete Elizaes death,
We haue so wise, so kinde a King.
The Scholer and the Souldier sing,
The weaned childe, the beldam olde,
The Cittie sing, and Countrie both:
our eares may heare, our eyes beholde.
Our Gallant Peeres, our Court, our Church,
In sweetest harmonie doe sing,
Accenting loud with ayrie notes,
God saue our wise, and learned King,
The Scottish Ile doth streame with teares,
Shed forth for absence of her King,
The bankes of English Ile for ioy,
With Ecchoes sounding loud shall ring.
Be glad thou Scottish Ile, thy king
A mightie Monarch is become,
For faire Eliza now is dead,
And he enioyes her Regall roome.
The beames of his reflecting eye,
Shall beate vpon thy Northren coast,
And if at neede thou call his aide,
Thy King will ride to thee in poast.
Let Spaine spight England still, Infanta
Fume, proud Pope with furie swell,
Their boasting threates are windie wordes,
Their deedes are bred in damned hell.
The hellish brood of damned crue,
Whom Babel-Rome with poyson fed,
Did often plot, (but God said no)
To cut Elizaes vitall thred.
But in despight of Pope and Spaine,
Her houred glasse did all out runne,
And she gan quietly fall on sleepe
In peace, when her due time was come.
What traitor plots thou hast escapt,
My hart doth sigh when toung doth tell,
Black poyson and the murdering knife,
Contriu'd by Hagges of darkest hell.
Thus Ioue from heauen high did speake,
Touch not my King, let him alone:
For he full many yeares in peace,
Shall sit vpon Elizaes throne.
The Popish hoped day of glee,
To them is turn'd a mourning day:
God graunt their follie they may see,
And seeing shun their owne decay.
The Pope may feare, his chaire doth reele,
Although he brag with tripple crowne,
An English Lion comes ere long,
By force to pull him head-long downe.
Who doubts that reades thy holy booke,
Compos'd by heau'n inspired skill:
But that thy Lion tribe the ten—
Horn'd beast of Babel-Rome shall kill.
A patron stout of Christian faith,
Shall sway the Scepter of this Ile:
When he was borne to be our Lord,
The earth, the skie, and fates did smile.
This fiue and fortie yeares, Eliza
hath our soules with Manna fed,
Most happie thrise are we, that still
Shall feede vpon this sacred bread.
Our golden-age is not yet out
Of date, our God yet loue vs will,
His holy arch is not remou'd,
His mercie seate is with vs still.
Now welcome King, thy subiects long,
did wish to see thy princely face,
That they might crie, as they were wont
To doe, God saue your royall grace.
Thy London streetes, thy Caesar towre,
Thy arched bridge doth Ecchoes sing,
And pearce the clouds with crying loud,
God saue, God saue our welcome King.
Now boyes and girles, both bond and free,
With gladsome tongues together say,
Oh happie we, that liue to see,
King Iames his royall crowning day.
Let vs applaud with clapping hands,
And crying loud, God saue our King:
That earth and ayre for ioyfull noise,
with Ecchoes chaunting loud may ring.
Since thou wert Englands King proclaim'd,
When comes the King hath beene our song?
Now we reioyce to see thy face,
Whom we desir'd to see so long.
God blesse thy state, thy royall seed,
Thy Princes-borne & famous Queene;
Iehouah graunt all flourish still,
Like Cedar and the Laurell greene.
Let pleasant May and summer dayes,
Continue still your during-life:
Let frutefull peace, and plentie great,
In English, Scottish Ile be rife.
Of late on shaddow we did gaze,
And that did please our eye-sight well,
But now thy substance we may see,
What toung our present ioy may tell.
As thirstie soule desireth drinke,
Or hunger staru'd some wholesome food,
So glad are we to greete our King,
The Anchor hope of Englands good.
And blessed thrise are we by King,
Who is no childe, not aged olde,
But such a one, as can the Helme,
Of publique wealth both guide & hold.
Cast of your Sable mourning weedes,
Cease sorrow, sighes, and sobs away,
Adorne your selues with coloures braue,
For this is Englands bridall day.
Spare now no cost, let angels flie,
As Hearaulds of your in-bread ioy,
Our Caesar now to London's come,
Who will vs shield from all anoy.
English, French, the Dutch, and Tuscan
Braue, triumph for Englands King,
Let true loue set your hartes on fire,
Prepare rich presents for to bring.
Beare Oliue branches in your handes,
Adorne your heads with Laurell greene:
Adore your Salomon of peace,
Such golden dayes were neuer seene.
Let Pageants gay, let gallant shewes,
Shew forth your inconceiued glee,
That soueraigne Lord, by outward signes,
Your inward loyall hearts may see.
Perfume the ayre with odors sweete,
Prepare rich vnguents for your King,
Let musicke sweete sound in your streete,
And voices Halleluiah sing.
Sound Lute, sound Harpe, let Organes sound,
Your houses deck with rich aray:
Strew paued streetes with Roses sweete,
To beautifie King Iames his day.
Let snow-white swans in Thamesis,
Let birds in cages sweetely sing,
Let Artistes learne them now to speake,
That they may say, God saue the king.
Let conduict-pipes gush forth with wine,
That causeth mirth, and cureth care,
For Prince of peace is safely come,
Our foes are sicke with deadly feare.
When royall crowne of Maiden Queene,
Shall circle round thy sacred head,
Great mirth and ioy our harts shall fill,
Our griefe intoomb'd in Lethean bed.
The rich reioyce, the poore are glad,
The young and old with ioy abound,
Because they liue to see the day,
Wherein king Iames our king is crown'd,
Now milke and hony in our land
Shall flowe, no cause of sorrow found,
The virgin pure and wedded wife,
With toungs their hartie ioy shall sound.
Let Angels still support thy throne,
Let Ioue protect thee with his wing,
So mirth our harts and mouth shall fill,
Our toungs still Halleluiah sing.
Tempora foelicis superos concedere vitae
Regi, Reginae, tum sobilique precor.

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