University of Virginia Library

Pictures Royall.

King.

Vain Painter, why limm'st thou the King? wherfore
Dost thou great Grampian born Ioves face smeare o're?
Paint vulgar men: draw Bacchus when he sits
With red lead, cerusse Venus best befits,
So great a Princes picture ought to stand,
Done by a Homers, or a Virgils hand.

Queene.

Here Maries lovely smiling face you see,
Lo here her brow, eyes, lips, breast: Majesty
Shines in her front, her brighter eyes outgoe
All gemmes, her lips the roses, breasts the snow.
Here three faire Goddesses in one are seene,
Juno, chast Pallas, Venus beauties Queene.
To be more like her, Iuno all her threats,
Pallas her Gorgon, Venus charmes forgets.
The portrait to the life, yet comes not neere,
The Goddesse painted doth lesse faire appeare,
Or colours fade, or painter thy weake sight
Is dazeld by the Goddesse eyes and light.

Prince of Wales.

Loe Wales young Prince, who doth an apple hold
The worlds embleme by him to be controld.
With him compare the boy which Zeusis drew,
And grapes to which a shole of birds erst flew.
If looks may be beleev'd, this childe by's face,
Should keepe his apple, and his enemies chace.

The same.

Of a great Prince, of grandsires great descended
In this smal boord the coppie is comprehended
Herein his fathers countenance you see,
And both his grandsires lookes presented be.
His right hand olive beares, his left hand bayes,
Both which a Lord in warre and peace him sayes.
Be famous child, the olive Iames you gave,
Henry your bayes, from Father both you have.

Duke of Yorke.

View here a yong Dukes picture, in't you see
Looks which are martiall, and yet lovely be.
At once the selfe same facc doth smile and threat,
And is both Mars and Venus counterfeit.
Which Uulcan viewing forthwith angry grew,
And cald the gods another crime to view.
Those gods whom erst Phæbus in bed did finde,
He swore were in one table now combin'd.

Lady Mary.

The Realmes third hope, this table doth present
The Fathers joy, the Mothers deare content:
Her face speakes wit, where sweet amomus blowes
And Mothers lillies mixt with Fathers rose;
Be not proud, Painter, praise in vaine is sought,
This masterpiece the Graces themselves wrought.