CAPTAIN

Well, Dance another strain, and we'll think how Bless my sweet Master's, the old, and the young, From the gall of the heart, and the stroke of the tongue. With you lucky Bird I begin, let me see, I aim at the best, and I trow you are he, Here's some luck already, if I understand The grounds of mine Art; here's a Gentleman's hand. Il'e kiss it for lucks sake, you shall by this line Love a Horse, and a Hound; but no partly of a swine. To hunt the brave Stag, not so much for the food, As the weal of your body, and the health o'your blood. Your a man of good means, and have Territories store Both by Sea, and by Land; and were born Sir to more, Which you Like a Lord, and the Prince of your peace, Content with your havings, despise to increase: You are no great Wencher, I see by your table, Although your Mons Veneris says you are able; You live chaste, and single, and have buried your Wife, And mean not to marry, by the line of your life. Whence he that conjectures, your quality learns, You are and honest good man, and care of your Barns. Your Mercuries hill too, a wit does betoken, Some booke-craft you have, and are pretty well spoken. But stay, in your Jupiters mount, what's here? A King, a Monarch; what wonders appear! High, Bountiful, Just: a Jove for your parts, A Master of men, and that Reign in their hearts. I'll tell it my train, And come to you again. COuld any doubt that saw this hand, Or who you are, or what command You have upon the fate of things, Or would not say you were let down From Heaven, on earth to be the Crown, And top of all your neighbour Kings? To see the ways of truth you take, To sallance business, and to make All Christian differences cease. Or till the quarrel, and the cause You can compose, to give them laws, As arbitor of War, and Peace. For this, of all the world you shall Be styled James, the just, and all Their states dispose, their Sons and daughters, And for your fortune you alone, Among them all shall work your own, By peace, not by human slaughters. But why do I presume, though true, To tell a Fortune, Sir, to you, Who are the maker here of all; Where none do stand, or fit in view, But owe their fortune unto you, At least what they good Fortune's call? My self a Gipsy here do shine, Yet are you maker, Sir, of mine. O that confession could content So high a bounty, that does know No partly of motion, but to flow, and giving never to repent. May still the matter wait your hand, That it not feel, or stay, or stand; but all desert still over charge. And may your goodness ever find In me whom you have made, a mind, As thankful as your own is large. GLory of ours, and grace of all the Eath; How well your figure does become your birth, As if your form, and fortune equal stood, And only virtue God above your blood. LOve, love his fortune then, and virtues known, Who is the top of men, But makes the happiness our own; Since where the Prince, for goodness is renowned, The Subject with Felicity is Crowned.