Like those, who, fall'n from youth or beauty's grace,
Lay colours on, which more belie the face.
Be You still what You are; a glorious theme
For Truth to crown. So when that diadem
Which circles Your fair brow drops off, and time
Shall lift You to that pitch our prayers climb;
Posterity will plait a nobler wreath,
30To crown Your fame and memory in death.
This is sad truth and plain, which I might fear
Would scarce prove welcome to a Prince's ear;