Flamma sine Fumo or, poems without fictions. Hereunto are annexed the Causes, Symptoms, or Signes of several Diseases with their Cures, and also the diversity of Urines, with their Causes in Poetical measure. By R. W. [i.e. Rowland Watkyns] |
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Upon the Right Honourable John Lord Scudamore Uiscoun: Slego, qui profunditates penus pictatis ærarium, nec non nobilitatis, Splender maximus.
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Upon the Right Honourable John Lord Scudamore Uiscoun: Slego, qui profunditates penus pictatis ærarium, nec non nobilitatis, Splender maximus.
He loveth our Nation, and hath built us a Synagogue,
Luk. 7.5.
Can I be safe, or from presumption free,
That will attempt to climb so high a tree?
Whose top doth reach to heaven; and hath made
Sad Christians joyful with his pleasant shade.
He is no barren fig-tree which deceives,
And gives instead of fruits, but fading leaves.
Who knows his pious mind, or spirit; knows
A sea of vertues, which nere ebbes, but flows.
Justice, Religion, wisdom in his breast
As in their center fixt, do safely rest.
His noble actions run like purer ore
In a rich vein, and still increase their store.
An ancient Temple ruin'd lay in dust,
And was consumed by times all eating rust
Those heaps of stones he did erect, and raise
Pillars of honor to uphold Gods praise.
If this weak child, my little book should peace,
The stones to speak his worth would never cease.
David was blest, because he thought to build,
Here's one not only thought, but hath fulfil'd.
He did not only this fair building frame,
But with revenues he enricht the same.
He thought it not a blessing, but a curse,
To rob the Church, and so to fill his purse.
The Eagle burnt her nest with that same cole,
Which she had newly from the altar stole.
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Into our wealth will like a canker eat.
He ne're defil'd his heart, nor staind his hands
With plundred goods, or with ill-gotten lands.
Who writes his charity, and love, must bring
A quil from heaven's winged Cherubine.
No wonder then, that this fair Cedar stands,
When others are cut down by cruel hands:
Afflictions daunt him not, but make him bold,
He fears no fire, whose mettal is of gold.
God goes before him like a cloud by day,
And fire by night to guid, and guard his way.
Although Hom-Lacy may afford him leasure,
Yet Abbey Dowr will bring the richest treasure.
O that my muse could spice his precious fame,
And adde perfume unto his sweeter name.
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