To The Queen

FAIRE as unshaded Light; or as the Day
In its first birth, when all the Year was May;
Sweet, as the Altars smoak, or as the new
Unfolded Bud, sweld by the early dew;
Smooth, as the face of waters first appear’d,
Ere Tides began to strive, or Winds were heard:
Kind as the willing Saints, and calmer farre,
Than in their sleeps forgiven Hermits are:
You that are more, then our discreter feare
Dares praise, with such full Art, what make you here?
Here, where the Summer is so little seen,
That leaves (her cheapest wealth) scarce reach at green,
You come, as if the silver Planet were
Misled a while from her much injur’d Sphere,
And t’ease the travailes of her beames to night,
In this small Lanthorn would contract her light