R oyall Astræa makes our day
E ternall with her beames, nor may
G rosse darknesse ouercome her;
I now perceiue why some doe write,
N o countrey hath so short a night,
A s England hath in Summer.
HYMNE VII.
To the Rose.
E ye of the Garden, Queene of flowres,
L ove's cup wherein he nectar powres,
I ngendered first of nectar;
S weet nurse-child of the Spring's young howres,
A nd Beautie's faire character.
B est iewell that the Earth doth weare,
E uen when the braue young sunne draws neare,
/span> T o her hot Loue pretending;[170] H imselfe likewise like forme doth beare,
A t rising and descending.
R ose of the Queene of Loue belou'd;
E ngland's great Kings diuinely mou'd,
G ave Roses in their banner;
I t shewed that Beautie's Rose indeed,
N ow in this age should them succeed,
A nd raigne in more sweet manner.
HYMNE VIII.
To all the Princes of Europe.