Madagascar; with Other Poems/To the Earle of Portland, Lord Treasurer; on the mariage of his Sonne

by William Davenant

To the Earle of Portland,

Lord Treasurer; on the

mariage of his Sonne.

 

My Lord, this Night is yours! each wandring Star
That was nnbusi'd, and irregular;
Most gravely now, his bright Companion leads,
To fix o're your glad Roofe, their shining Heads.
And it is sayd, th'exemplar King's your guest;
And that the rich-Ey'd-Darling of his Breast,
(To ripen all your Joyes) will there become
The Musick, Odor, Light, of ev'ry Roome!
A mixture of two noble bloods, in all
Faith, and domestick nature, union call,
No travail'd Eyes have seene, with humbler state
Of love perform'd, where Princes celebrate.
This when I heard; I know not what bold Starre
My Spirits urg'd, but it was easier farre
The torne, the injur'd Panther, to restraine
In's hot pursuit, or stroke him coole againe;
To tell the cause, why Winds doe disagree,
Divide them when in Stormes they mingled be;
Strait fix them single, where they breath'd before;
Or fanne them with a Plume, from Sea to Shore;
Than bind my raging Temples, or resist
The pow'r that swell'd me, as Apollo's Priest.
Therefore my Robe, that on his Altar lay,
My Virge, my Wreath, I tooke; and thus did pray:
That you (my Lord) with lasting memory,
And strength of fervent youth, may live to see,
Your name in this blest nuptiall store the Earth,
With such a masculine, and knowing birth;
As shall at factious Councells moderate,
And force injurious Armies to their fate.
Let Time be fetter'd, that they never may
Increasing others, feele themselves decay.
To you (my Lord) who with wise industrie,
Seeke Virtue out, then give it strength to be;
Where ere you shall recide, let Plenty bring,
The pride, and expectations of the Spring;
The wealth that loads inticing Autumne grow
Within your reach; let hasty Rivers flow
'Till on your shores, they skaly Tribute pay,
Then ebbe themselves in empty Waves away:
Let each pale Flow'r, that springeth there, have pow'r
T'invite a Sunne-beame, and command a Show'r;
The dew that falls about you taste of Wine,
Each abject Weed change root, and be a Vine!
But I with this prophetick plenty grow
Already rich, and proud; 'cause then I know
The Poets of this Isle, in Vineyards may
Rejoyce, whilst others thirst in groves of Bay!
Sir, let me not your wary patience move;
And sinne, with too much courage of my love!
He that in strength of wishes, next shall trie,
T'increase your blessings with his Poesie,
May shew a fiercer Wit, and cleaner Art,
But not a more sincere, and eager Heart.