II. The Power.
1
Blest
Rosella, shall I praise thee?
With wits herauldry emblaze thee?
Or with strong Encomiums raise thee?
2
No, I need not; I should spoile thee,
Rhymes and Raptures would defile thee,
And of thy own light beguile thee.
3
If the Muses I should muster,
And of Wits bring the whole cluster,
They could not unlock thy lustre.
4
All the verge of my desire
Is not to advance thee higher;
But thy vertues to admire.
5
For th' are of such force and vigor,
Thou canst make the mountains bigger,
And restrain the Lions rigour.
6
Start the Stoick from his station,
Urge a dead man into passion;
And allarm a drowzy nation.
7
Make the Bull to break his bridle;
And the Asse would not be idle,
Till he plaid upon the fiddle.
8
Cause the Thief to break his halter;
And the Saint his zeal to alter;
Making thee to be his Psalter.
9
And now I wish that I could win thee,
Or on my sleeve that I might pin thee,
Or set my Standard up within thee.
