Fortune, as loth so rare a worke to spill,
At our Great Britaine maid did not repine,
But did to her all happinesse assigne,
Whereby no prince on earth yet euer was,
That for rare gifts Eliza did surpasse.
20.
Cease then, yee black-mouth’d brood of enuie’s race,
Men monsters like, or monsters like to men,
Whose tongues with scandall tipt, seeke to disgrace
Our royall soueraigne, Ioue’s anoynted queene,