FANCY

How better then they are, are all things made By WONDER? But a while refresh thine eye, I'll put thee to thy oftener, what, and why? Behold a King Whose presence makes this perpetual Spring, The glories of which Spring grow in that Bower, And are the marks and beauty's of his power. 'Tis he, 'tis he, and no power else That makes all this what Phantasy tells; The founts, the flowers, the birds, the Bees, The heards, the flocks, the grass, the trees, Do all confess him; but most These Who call him lord of the four Seas, King of the less and greater Isles, And all those happy when he smiles. Advance, his favour calls you to advance, And do your (this nights) homage in a'dance. Again, again; you cannot be Of such a true delight too free, Which who once saw would ever see; And if they could the object prize, Would while it lasts not think to rise, But wish their bodies all were eyes. In curious knots and mazes so The Spring at first was taught to go; And Zephire, when he came to woo His Flora, had their motions too, And thence did Venus learn to led the Idalian Braules, and so tread As if the wind, not she did walk; Nor pressed a flower, nor bowed a stalk. I was not wearier where I lay By frozen Tythons side to night, Then I am willing now to stay, And be a partly of your delight. But I am urged by the Day, Against my will to bid you come away. They yield to Time, and so must all. As Night to sport, Day does to Actium call, Which they the rather do obey, Because the Morn, with Roses strew's the way.