UPON THE BIRTH OF THE PRINCESSE ELIZABETH by RICHARD CRASHAW

Bright starre of Majesty, oh shedd on mee
A precious influence, as sweet as thee.
That with each word, my loaden pen letts fall,
The fragrant spring may be perfum'd withall.
That Sol from them may suck an honied shower,
To glutt the stomack of his darling flower.
With such a sugred livery made fine,
They shall proclaime to all, that they are thine.
Lett none dare speake of thee, but such as thence
Extracted have a balmy Eloquence.
But then, alas, my heart! oh how shall I
Cure thee of thy delightfull tympanie?
I cannot hold, such a spring tide of joy
Must have a passage, or 'twill force a way.
Yet shall my loyall tongue keepe this command:
But give me leave to ease it with my hand.
And though these humble lines soare not soe high,
As is thy birth; yet from thy flaming eye
Drop downe one sparke of glory, and they'l prove
A praesent worthy of Apollo's love.
My quill to thee may not praesume to sing:
Lett th' hallowed plume of a Seraphick wing
Bee consecrated to this worke, while I
Chant to my selfe with rustick melodie.
Rich, liberall heaven, what, hath your treasure store
Of such bright Angells, that you give us more?
Had you, like our great Sunne, stamped but one
For earth, 't had beene an ample portion.
Had you but drawne one lively coppy forth,
That might interpret our faire Cynthia's worth,
Y' had done enough to make the lazy ground
Dance, like the nimble sphaeres, a joyfull round.
But such is the caelestiall Excellence
That in the princely patterne shines, from whence
The rest pourtraicted are, that 'tis noe paine
To ravish heaven to limbe them o're againe.
Wittnesse this mapp of beauty; every part
Of which doth show the Quintessence of art.
See! nothing's vulgar, every atome heere
Speakes the great wisdome of th' artificer.
Poore earth hath not enough perfection,
To shaddow forth th' admired Paragon.
Those sparkling twinnes of light should I now stile
Rich diamonds, sett in a pure silver foyle;
Or call her cheeke a bed of new blowne roses;
And say that Ivory her front composes;
Or should I say, that with a scarlet wave
Thoses plumpe soft rubies had bin drest soe brave;
Or that the dying lilly did bestow
Upon her neck the whitest of his snow;
Or that the purple violets did lace
That hand of milky doune: All these are base;
Her glories I should dimme with things soe grosse,
And foule the cleare text with a muddy glosse.
Goe on then, Heaven, and limbe forth such another,
Draw to this sister miracle a brother;
Compile a fift glorious Epitome
Of heaven, and earth, and of all raritie;
And sett it forth in the same happy place,
And I'le not blurre it with my Paraphrase.

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