Вильям Картрайт (William Cartwright)

November

Thou Sun that shed'st the Dayes, looke downe and see
A Month more shining by Events, than thee;
Departed Saints and Souls sign'd it before,
But now the living signe it more.
Persons and Actions meet, All meant for Joy,
But some build up, and some destroy.
Bate us That Ushering Curse so dearly knowne
And then the Month is All our Owne.
So, at the First, Darkenesse was throwne about
Th' unshapen Earth, and Light was thence strooke out.

Draw the first Curtaine and the Scene is then
A Triple State of Cull'd and Trusted Men:
Men, in whose Hands 'twas once t'have giv'n us more
Then our Bold Father Askd before:
Who, had they us'd their Prince's Grace, had got
What no Armes could, and Theirs will not.
What more then Witchcraft did our Blessing Curse,
And made the Cure make Evills worse?
'Tis the Third Day; throw in the Blackest Stone,
Mark it for Curs'd, and let it stand Alone.

But, hold! speake gentler things! This Fourth was seene
The softest Image of our Beauteous Queene.
Bring me a Lambe, not us'd to Elder Food,
That h'as as yet more Milke then Blood,
That to the Honour of this Early Bride
(Like Thetis joynd to Peleus side,)
Some Tender Thing may fall; though none can be
So White, so Tender, as is She.
Whiles we at home our Little Turfe debate,
She spreads our Glories to another State.

Next view a Treason of the worst Intent,
Had not our Owne done more, then Strangers meant;
Religion is the Thing both sides pretend,
But either to a different End:
They, out of Zeale, labour to reare their owne,
These, out of Zeale to pull All downe.
Blesse Us from These, as Them! but yet compare
Those in the Vault, These in the chayre.
Though the just Lot of unsuccessful sin
Fix their's Without, you'l finde Worse Heads within.

But hearke! What Thunder's that? and who those men
Flying tow'rds Heav'n, but falling downe agen?
Whose those Blacke Corps cast on the Guilty Shore?
'Tis sin that swimmes to its owne Dore.
'Tis the Third scourge of Rebells, which allow'd
Our Army, like the Prophets Cloud
Did from an Handfull rise, Untill at last
Their Sky was by it Overcast.
But (as Snakes Hisse after th'have lost their Sting)
The Traytor call'd This Treachery in the King.

Away, and view the Graces and the Houres
Hov'ring aloofe and dropping mingled Flowres
Upon a Cradle, where an Infant lay
More Grace, more Goddesse then were they;
Thrice did they destine Her to passe the seas;
(Love made Her thrice to pass with ease)
To raise a strength of Princes first, and then
To raise Another strength of Men.
Most Fruitful Queene! we boast Both Gifts, And thus
The Day was meant to You, the Joy to Us.

Next to this Mother stands a Virgin Queene ,
Courting and Courted wheresoever seen;
The Peoples Love first from Her Troubles grew;
Her Reigne then made That Love her Due.
That Comely Order, which did then adorne
Both Fabricks, now by Facion[']s torn;
That Forme, by her allow'd, of Common Pray'r
Is styl'd vaine Beating of the Ayre.
How doe they Honour, how forsake Her Crowne!
Her Times are still Cry'd up, but Practis'd Downe.

Reach last, the Whitest Stone the World yet knew,
White as the Soule, to whom the Day is due.
Sonne of the Peaceful Iames , how is he blest
With All his Blessings but His Rest!
Though undeserved Times call All His Pow'rs,
And Troubles season Other Hour's,
Let this Day flow to Him as void of Care,
As Feasts to Gods, and Poets are:
The Wish is Just, O Heavens! As our strife
Hath added to His Cares , adde Yee to His Life .

And now, since His Large Heart with Hers is met,
Whose Day the starres on purpose neare His set;
NOVEMBER shall to me for ever shine,
Red in its Inke, Redder in Wine.
And since the Third (which almost hath made shift
T'Absolve the Treason of the Fift)
Cannot be well Remembred, or Forgot
By Loyall Hearts, as if 'twere not;
The Last extreame, against the First wee'l bring:
That gave us Many Tyrants , This a KING.

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