University of Virginia Library

TO THE ILLVSTRIous Lord, Iames Hay, Earle of Carlile.

Thou whom high worth and vertue doth adorne,
By whom three bloody Sheilds in field are borne,
Great Hay, accept with a smooth brow my short
Conceits, of your two servants the disport.
A King's the Theme, with whom than you is none
More gratious, nor a man is more his owne.

The Queene to the King.

You goe (deare Love to Britaines utmost bound,
The cause of your long way is to be crown'd,
Among cold hils a summer there you'll spend,
And I without you here the same must end:
One peoples Empire thus will sunder them
Whose parting's more then the worlds Diadem.

The King to the Queene.

VVhile a short stay, short way divides us twaine,
Nor yet of me, nor of your hap complaine.
My Charles and Mary while you doe me misse,
A thousand times your Rosy cheeke will kisse:
And if our Physicks learned leach say true,
You have within you that will comfort you.

The Queenes complaint of the Scots.

Thou warlike nation whom Achaius tyed
In league, and made our house of Borbones guard.
Since thou my Love and mee dost now divide,
Thou art become my foe, whose heart so hard
T'enioy my heart my owne life hast not spar'd.
My dayes want light, my nights sleep; longer are
The houres then dayes, the yeere then age by farre;
Either confesse our league is broken here,
Or Scotland quickly send me backe my deere.

Scotland's Apologie.

Faire Goddesse, honour of the Borbons name,
You are not wrong'd, no faith is broke, no strife;
Not without you your Love to our coasts came,
Part of the Husbands heart, is the Good-wife;
Nor while the King stayes here are you alone,
Who is your deerer part, and halfe of life,
And if the halfe, who wholly is your owne,
Be greater then the whole, and more entire.
Aske nought, you have more then you can desire.

Of the rainy weather in England, and the faire in Scotland.

Twice hath bright Cynthia wan'd, twice fill'd her round,
Since England with continuall raine lies drownd;
While Spring here winters, Scotland doth behold
Dayes without cloudes, skies azure, Sunnes of gold.
Thus whiles the King from Thames to Tweed doth goe,
One Kingdome smiles, the other weepes for woe.

England of her selfe.

VVhile towards the North the King his course doth steare,
I was neere drownd in griefe with many a teare,
Now hee is going, griefe doth stint those showres,
For greater then teares is this griefe of ours.

England to Scotland.

The sixt Olympiad to thy coasts doth bring
Thy wishd Sunbeam and makes thee see thy King.
Thou dost well, Scotland, thus thy myrth t'expresse
In smiles alone, for all words are farre lesse.