214
Next Day, when the fair Bride might boast a name
More noble, and 'rose perfect as her Mother,
All sorts joyn'd hands to celebrate her fame,
And grace the Pomp with some device or other.
Songs lull'd the Aier, and the battering feet
Of tilting Steeds dull Earth to motion beat.
215
The honest Swaines, whose Rustick paines and Love,
The noblest Princes are too high to scorne,
Joyn'd in a Pastorall, both their mirth to move
And shew what dutious minds by them were born.
To name no more, there Willie to his mate.
The last daies Pomp thus bluntly did relate.
