BEfriend me Apollo, lend me Orpheus lire,
T' inchant the eares of men, make them admire:
Take home my Muse unto thy clearest spring,
And wash her cleane, then teach her how to sing
Heroick straines; for I must dedicate
This Poem to a man that scornes curld fate:
Hee's true to King and country, all will say;
The clouds of treason ne're eclipst his day.
Some Angell dropt a quill from out his wing,
And bad me write, whilst he calld Fame to sing.
O glorious Cl [...]o, wash my muddy braine,
And teach me write some high aspiring straine,
such as might make the starry host to wonder,
And make great Iove forget that he can thunder.
But I'me amaz'd, and this is all I feare,
Iove thinks himselfe not safe whilst Pembroke's here.
Methinks I see how Mars looks pale to see
A man in armes, more brave, more stout than hee:
And Neptune tell't, his skill upon the main
Is more than can b'exprest by my dull straine;
And Hermes offers him the greatest ods,
To yeeld him Messenger unto the gods.
Once Venus view'd him as he walkt to see
The Spring adorn'd in her greene livery:
She strait forgot Adonis, and grew coy
To her aspiring Mars, and calld him Boy.
Wisht him looke downe upon the fertile earth,
Who had out-shone bright heaven by his birth.
Hebe was so orecome with his bright eyes,
Shee'd like to have drownd the bright translucent skies.
[Page] Looking on him, she stumbled, all appalld,
The place she died with Nectar, Galactia calld;
Nor is it heaven alone admires to see
This royall man, this brave Epitomie
Of all true vertue, he is the worlds wonder,
Mens shouts do clangor in the aire as thunder.
Have you not seen men holloo forth this straine,
God save our King, and the Lord Chamberlaine?
Have you not heard them whisper as you goe,
There goes Lord Pembrook, terror to our Foe?
The King doth hold him deare, the reason why,
None of his race did with a tympanie
Of high aspiring treason breake, but all
Were true by proofe, they were authenticall.
I'me strooke with wonder, I cannot expresse,
In his brave parts, our Kingdomes happinesse.
I've seene some meteors glimmer in the sky;
But after one brave blaze they fall and die.
Your fixt stars, though, still keepe their course and stand,
As Vassals, Tendants to great Ioves command:
To make reply, my Muse dares not aspire,
Hee's sure to burne, that doth but touch the fire.
Hee's sure a Foole that strives to pull downe stars,
I must not speake, when any high wheele jars.
'Tis now Vox Populi that is my Theame,
Come quicke invention, from Pernassus streame:
Bring Tempe's sweetnesse on thy nimble wing,
Perfume the bright aire, which so loud shall ring
At thy returne, as did the youths of Troy,
When they enjoy'd brave Hector, Priams joy.
[Page 4] Touch the earth weeds, make them in sweetnesse joyne,
With the fine planted fragrant Eglantine.
As thou comest by make thou O Pembrooke laugh,
We write Encomiums not an Epitaph.
When thou hast done this then returne againe
And Helicon reward thee for thy paine.
Give me that man that scornes the teeming earth,
When it's in labour with abortive birth:
He equalls the best seconded by none,
And Golden lines shall garnish his brave tombe.
The common voyce will alwayes thus expresse,
In the brave Herbert lies our happinesse:
Thou art that Hermes Usher to the sunne,
Thou art his Gardiant when the day is done:
You are a Plague to Papists, friend to those,
Who to base Antichrist are sworne foes.
The Pope doth tremble at our Herberts name,
The Turkes and Soldan heape your spreading fame.
Let us rejoyce and Iö sing as loud
As thunder shot from a divided cloud.
Our King's the Sunne within our Horoscope,
A terrour to the Devill and the Pope;
Our Nobles are those fixt stars which doe shine
In their due place, each man in his line,
Those who have striv'd t'usurpe our great Joves throne,
My joyes so great to them I cannot mourne.
Brave Pembrooke hath so fill'd our hearts with joy,
The Commons cry this is the pride of Troy.
One that will venture each limbe with his life,
To keepe the Vulgar from all forraigne strife.
O what a joyfull thing it was to heare,
How we not long since lovingly did cheare.
[Page 5] The Commons hearts, when Justice they did crave,
He pawnd his Honour, Justice they should have.
Which to the Commons did give such content,
As that their prayers quicke to heaven they sent.
That more such Peeres in England he would send,
So should all Taxes cease, and Schismes end.
Another said, had Wentworth beene like him,
He had not fear'd in bloody streames to swim.
Or if that Fiend, a third man he did say,
Each man his verdict of him, did bring in,
Not our convicting him of Traitors sin.
His vertues all admired singing againe,
Long live our King Charles and his Lord Chamberlane.
Long live our King & crowne him with such Peers,
That hee may reigne most joyfull many yeers.
Your true hacht Eagle will not prey on flies,
Nor good men blot themselves with treacheries:
Vertue shall live, but Infamie kills dead
Each sprouting fortune in her maidenhead.
You that are stain'd with treasons inky blot,
And envy those men which as you are not,
Looke on our subject, Envy will grow milde,
To hate this man none sure can be so vilde.
Shall the whole kingdome ring a peale of praise
Vnto your Honour, and shall not I raise
My Ela straine, and stretch my throat to sing,
Out-caroll all our birds i'th pleasant spring?
But O! one vertue here among the rest
I have observ'd, deserves the terme of best:
Your Honors humble daigning to give eare
Vnto the abjectst vassall that comes neere
[Page] Your Honor; but pray pardon my dull pen,
That I should formost of an host of men
Vncase my rustick Muse, which bawles so loud,
As if begot of Ixion in a clowd.
Your vertues do deserve a Virgils straine,
An Ovids verse, and not a home-spun braine.
The splendor of your vertues dim the skies,
Which I can't looke on with a Buzzards eyes:
Your Sailes spred high, with greatest fortunes flow,
Excuse my gazing up, standing below.
The Commons voice runs thus of you, I see
The abstract of vertue, and Epitomee
Of all Morality: He is the man
That gaines the hearts of all, do what all can.
Methinks 'tis non-sence to gainsay the right,
Or to deny the Sun-beame gives cleare light:
Vox Populi doth speake, we all agree,
Our best estates owe Chamberlaine a Fee,
Which must be payd with love, for he loves all
Which loyall are: Desert daserves no fall.
O! had my Muse been eloquent to raise
A phansie which might elevate the praise
Of his scarse paraleld vertue, surely then,
Writing his worth, I had got praise of men.
But O, my wits were dull, I wanted straine,
Calliope slept, she was not in the vaine
For to assist me. Yee Commons me excuse,
If height of your good wishes I abuse:
My wits were dull; but yet to after-age
His merits shall be shewne upon the stage.
FINIS.