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To the Princesse.
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To the Princesse.

Epigram 5.

Sweet Princesse, tho my Muse sing not the glories
Of far advent'rous Knights, or Ladies loves
Though here be no Encomiastick stories,
That tender hearts to gentle pitty moves:

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Yet in an honest homely Rustick strain,
She lims such Creatures as may you ne'er know.
Forgive her, though she be severe or plain,
Truth, that may warrant it, commanded so.
Yea, view it over with beliefe, but then
I am afraid you will abhorre a man.
And yet you need not; all deserve not blame,
For that great Prince that woeth to be yours,
(If that his worth but equalize his fame)
Is free from any Satyr here of ours.
Nay, they shal praise him; for though they have whips
To make the wicked their offences rue,
And dare to scourge the greatest when he trips,
Vertue shall still be certain of her due.
But for your sake (if that you entertain him)
Oh, would he were a man as I could fain him.
Yet sweet Elizabeth; that happy name,
If wee lost nothing else by losing thee,
So deare to England is, we are too blame
If without tears and sighs we parted be:
But if thou must make blest another Clime,
Remember Our: and for that though I use
A crabbed subject and a churlish rime,
Deigne but to be the Mistrisse of my Muse;
And I'll change Theames, and in a lofty stile
Keep thee alive for ever in this Ile.