What cry the boys? What ev’ry thing?
Behold, behold, yon comes the king:
And ev’ry period he bedecks
With En & Ecce venit Rex.
Oft have I warn’d (quoth he) our dirt
That no silk stockings should be hurt;
But we in vain strive to be fine,
Unless your graces sun doth shine;
And with the beams of your bright eye,
You will be pleas’d our streets to dry.