Vpon his Majesties last birth-night, be being then thirty five
yeares of age, and the Queene great with child.
A Star appearing of bright constellation,
More luminous than those of the same station,
The powers Cœlestiall much amaz'd thereat
To know the cause thereof, in Councell sate,
And summond Mercury the winged god
To search and find what wonder it might bode,
Who brought them word that Lachesis then drew
A thread from Clothoes distaffe, which to'his view
Was of such splendor, and withall so fine,
(The substance gold) and of so close a twine,
No edge could sunder, and that Star (so bright)
Rose five and thirty yeares since, as this night.
You are (if time we may compute) by story
In the meridian of your age and glory.
Your Cynthia too that shines by you so neare,
And now with such rare splendor fills her sphere,
Whose birth-dayes almost meete, as if that fate
Would adde a double lustre to your state.
Never may your two golden threds be spun.
Whilst the Moone guides the night, or day the Sun.
Epilogue.
What Muse so mute, but both with voice and strings
Will strive to celebrate the births of Kings.
Kings birth-dayes, of such goodnesse and renowne.
Ceres should fill with plenty, Bacchus Crowne.
Mirth should exceed it's limite, Ioyes abound,
And (after praise to heaven giv'n) Healths go round.
No other language then let this night coyne,
But Vive, vive la Roy, vive la Royne.
