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3. Song.
To the King, when he appeares, with his Lords in the Throne of Honor.
The living, and did wake men dead before)
Seeme now to pant small gusts, as out of breath,
And flie, to reconcile themselves on shore.
Those stormes the peoples giddy fury rayse,
Till like, fantastick windes themselves they waste,
The wisedome of that patience is thy prayse.
'Tis catching, and infects weake common eares;
For through those crooked, narrow Alleys, all
Invaded are, and kil'd by Whisperers.
Would not (like Monarchs that severe have bin)
Invent, Imperiall Arts, to question thought;
Nor punish vulgar sicknesse as a sin.
Be hinder'd of the pleasure to forgive;
Th'are worse than overcome (your wisedome knew)
That needed mercy to have leave to live.
Accept our wonder, and enjoy your praise!
Hee's fit to governe there, and rule alone,
Whom inward helps, not outward force doth raise.
Whilst the Chorus sung this Song, there
came softly from the upper part of the Heavens,
a huge cloud of various colours, but pleasant to
the sight, which discending to the midst of the
Sceane open'd, and within it was a transparent
brightnes of thin exhalations, such as the Gods
are feigned to descend in: in the most eminent place
of which, her Majesty sate, representing the chiefe
Heroin, environed with her martiall Ladies; and
from over her head were darted lightsome Rayes
that illuminated her seat, and all the Ladies about
her participated more or lesse of that light, as they
sate neere or further off: this brightnesse with many
streakes of thin vapours about it, such as are seene in
a fayre evening skie softly discended: and as it came
neere to the Earth, the seat of Honour by little and
little vanished, as if it gave way to these Heavenly
Graces. The Queenes Majesty and her Ladies were
in Amazonian habits of carnation, embroidered
with silver, with plumed Helmes, Band rickes with
Antique swords hanging by their sides, all as rich as
might be, but the strangenes of the Habits was most
admired.
To the King, when he appeares, with his Lords in the Throne of Honor.
1
Those quar'ling winds (that deafned unto deathThe living, and did wake men dead before)
Seeme now to pant small gusts, as out of breath,
And flie, to reconcile themselves on shore.
2
If it be Kingly patience to out lastThose stormes the peoples giddy fury rayse,
Till like, fantastick windes themselves they waste,
The wisedome of that patience is thy prayse.
3
Murmur's a sicknesse epidemicall;'Tis catching, and infects weake common eares;
For through those crooked, narrow Alleys, all
Invaded are, and kil'd by Whisperers.
4
This you discern'd, and by your mercy taught,Would not (like Monarchs that severe have bin)
Invent, Imperiall Arts, to question thought;
Nor punish vulgar sicknesse as a sin.
5
Nor would your valour, (when it might subdue)Be hinder'd of the pleasure to forgive;
Th'are worse than overcome (your wisedome knew)
That needed mercy to have leave to live.
6
Since strength of virtues, gain'd you Honours throne;Accept our wonder, and enjoy your praise!
Hee's fit to governe there, and rule alone,
Whom inward helps, not outward force doth raise.
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