Arthur a brave and valiant Brittish King,
Wanting a Poet, who his Reige could sing;
Has nothing, but his Name that does survive;
But in thy verse his Son shall ever live,
Which shows how soon a Lawrel Wreath decayes,
When 'tis not interwoven with the Bayes.
Though Nature many Powerful Charms did give
To fair Bonduca, yet we all believe
Her Beauties, in their height ne'r shone so bright,
As thou hast drawn them, now, in black, and white.
The Poets Art, the Painters does controul,
This but the Body draws, but that the Soul,
Old Ennius Passion, for the Queen, does prove,
No cold can triumph, o'r the heat of Love.
Whose boundless Power, who can too much admire,
Which Ages Ashes turns into a Fire.
Thou art the first hast done thy Country right;
For th'English, who Heroick Poems write
Wanting a Poet, who his Reige could sing;
Has nothing, but his Name that does survive;
But in thy verse his Son shall ever live,
Which shows how soon a Lawrel Wreath decayes,
When 'tis not interwoven with the Bayes.
Though Nature many Powerful Charms did give
To fair Bonduca, yet we all believe
Her Beauties, in their height ne'r shone so bright,
As thou hast drawn them, now, in black, and white.
The Poets Art, the Painters does controul,
This but the Body draws, but that the Soul,
Old Ennius Passion, for the Queen, does prove,
No cold can triumph, o'r the heat of Love.
Whose boundless Power, who can too much admire,
Which Ages Ashes turns into a Fire.
Thou art the first hast done thy Country right;
For th'English, who Heroick Poems write
In
