University of Virginia Library

A speech spoken before the right Honourable the Earle of Dover, at his House at Hunsden, as a preparation to a Maske, which consisted of nine Ladyes.

Presented the last New-yeares night.

The silver Swan soft gliding in the streame,
Cald to the Cocke then pearching on a beame,
And said to him; why, Chanticleere, when I
Move on the waves so low, thou sit'st so high?
The Cocke replide: O thou my best lov'd Sister
Well knowne in Poe, Meander, and Caister,
But best in Thamesis; Dost thou not know
The reason, why we in December crow?
More than before, or after? who againe
Thus answer'd: we of nothing can complaine
Being of all the birds that are, most white,
Loyall and chaste, and taking our delight
In rivers onely, bathing there our feete
To make our rare-heard musick sound more sweet.
Yet one thing to resolve, would make me proud,
To tell why at this time thou sing'st so lowd?
Who said: none of our ancestors but knew
That ever since Saint Peters Cock first crew,
We are injoyn'd to make lowd proclamation,
Of our most blessed Saviours Incarnation.
To which the Swan, (then in a Tone much higher)

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Said, in this Caroll I will fill the quire:
Which being voyc't, did sound so sweet and shrill,
That where the Swan and Cock were heard, did fill
The ayre with such an eccho, thither came
Vpon that summons, both the blind and lame,
Hungry and thirsty, poore, of all estates,
And none but fully sated at these gates.
Long may your bounty last, and we rejoyce,
To heare both City and the Country voyce
Your Hospitality, to your loud fame,
Whilst Time indures, or Christmas beares a name.
And now great Lord and Lady both prepare,
To know what Sports in agitation are.

Plaine Truth who onely hath the power
To steare the way to vertues bower,
By these cleare Tapers shining bright,
Doth celebrate this joviall night.
But by the Bird of Mars that crowes,
I now perceive the morning growes.
Her love to Phœbus to expresse,
And put his steeds in glorious dresse
Who shewes you what chaste virgins dwell,
Within the bosome of this Cell,
Appeare then O thou treble Trine
Of number, with the Muses nine.
(Appolloes sacred daughters) still
Frequent about Pernassus hill.
Or if you number them by Threes,
The first are the three Charitees,
Handmaides to Venus, Graces stil'd,
On whom their Father Iove still smil'd.
The second Chorus doth containe
Those beauties, by the Trojan swaine
On Ida judg'd: The third we call
The Vertues Theologicall,

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Faith, Hope, and Love, haply meet here,
To crowne the parting of the yeare,
With Roses fresh of Swan-like hew,
Which from a royall Stemme first grew,
And the brave Yorkists long since bore,
These vertues bower, doe best decore,
Flowers redolent, which Heralds say,
Ianus doth weare, as well as May.
Farre may they spread, be ever seene,
With milke white leaves, and branches greene,
Folded in amorous twines together,
Which Winter ne're may blast or wither.