 | Poesis Rediviva |  |
On the wearing of the Tag of her Blew Point.
Though like a Liquorish stick you're thin,Yet all its sweetnesse is within.
Like Aarons Rod in virtues bud,
A twig in virtue 'bove a wood.
Sure Kings white wands but Emblems be
Of virtues which do reign in thee.
Some think by Magick Rods decline,
And by their head point out a Myne.
But oh more true none this twig see,
That richer Mynes finde not by thee.
Sure had Philosophers but you known,
They'd this Elixir thought their stone.
Since you're a quintessence can refine,
And make brasse Tags priz'd 'bove a Myne.
While all that's glorious meets in you,
We pay to yours what is your due.
75
Who loves the Saint, must honour needs her tag.
Had you but lived in a fonder age,
To your Blew Point they'd gone a pilgrimage.
| Poesis Rediviva | |