Upon the death of Sir Albert Morton's Wife

He first deceased; she for a little tried
To live without him, liked it not, and died.

poem by Henry Wotton
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Upon The Sudden Restraint Of The Earl Of Somerset, Then Falling From Favour

Dazled thus with height of place,
Whilst our Hopes our wits Beguile,
No man marks the narrow space
'Twixt a Prison and a Smile.

Then since Fortunes favours fade,
You that in her arms do sleep,
Learn to swim and not to wade;
For the Hearts of Kings are deep.

But if Greatness be so blind,
As to trust in Towers of Air,
Let it be with Goodness lin'd,
That at least the Fall be fair.

Then though darkned you shall say,
When Friends fail and Princes frown,
Vertue is the roughest way,
But proves at night a Bed of Down.

poem by Henry Wotton
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A Hymn To My God

OH thou great Power, in whom I move,
For whom I live, to whom I die,
Behold me through thy beams of love,
Whilest on this Couch of tears I lye;
And Cleanse my sordid soul within,
By thy Chirsts Bloud, the bath of sin.

No hallowed oyls, no grains I need,
No rags of Saints, no purging fire,
One rosie drop from David's Seed
Was worlds of seas, to quench thine Ire.
O pretious Ransome! which once paid,
That Consummatum est was said.

And said by him, that said no more,
But seal'd it with his sacred breath.
Thou then, that hast dispung'd my score,
And dying, wast the death of death;
Be to me now, on thee I call,
My Life, my Strength, my Joy, my All.

poem by Henry Wotton
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You Meaner Beauties of the Night

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light;
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the sun shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your voices understood
By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,

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poem by Henry Wotton
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To A Noble Friend In His Sickness

Untimely Feaver, rude insulting guest,
How didst thou with such unharmonious heat
Dare to distune his well-composed rest;
Whose heart so just and noble stroaks did beat?

What if his Youth and Spirits well may bear
More thick assaults, and stronger siege then this?
We measure not his courage, but our fear:
Not what our selves, but what the Times may miss.

Had not that blood, which thrice his veins did yield,
Been better treasur'd for some glorious day:
At farthest West to paint the liquid field,
And with new Worlds his Masters love to pay?

But let those thoughts, sweet Lord, repose a while,
Tend only now thy vigour to regain;
And pardon these poor Rimes, that would beguile
With mine own grief, some portion of thy pain.

poem by Henry Wotton
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A Short Hymn Upon The Birth Of Prince Charles

You that on Stars do look,
Arrest not there your sight,
Though Natures fairest Book,
And signed with propitious light;
Our Blessing now is more Divine,
Then Planets that at Noon did shine.

To thee alone be praise,
From whom our Joy descends,
Thou Chearer of our Days,
Of Causes first, and last of Ends;
To thee this May we sing, by whom
Our Roses from the Lilies bloom.

Upon this Royal Flower,
Sprung from the chastest Bed,
Thy glorious sweetness shower,
And first let Myrtles Crown his Head;
Then Palms and Lawrels wreath'd between;
But let the Cypress late be seen.

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poem by Henry Wotton
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An Ode To The King, At His Returning From Scotland To The Queen, After His Coronation There

Rouse up thy self, my gentle Muse,
Though now our green conceits be gray,
And yet once more do not refuse
To take thy Phrygian Harp, and play
In honour of this chearful Day.

Make first a Song of Joy and Love,
Which chastely flame in Royal Eyes;
Then tune it to the Spheres above
When the benignest Stars do rise,
And sweet Conjunctions grace the Skies.

To this let all good Hearts resound,
While Diadems invest his Head:
Long may he live, whose Life doth bound
More then his Laws, and better Lead
By high Example, then by Dread.

Long may He round about Him see
His Roses and His Lillies bloom:

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poem by Henry Wotton
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A Poem Written By Sir Henry Wotton In His Youth

O Faithless World, & thy more faithless part, a Woman's heart!
The true Shop of variety, where sits nothing but fits
And feavers of desire, and pangs of love, which toyes remove.
Why, was she born to please, or I to trust, words writ in dust?
Suffering her Eyes to govern my despair, my pain for air;
And fruit of time rewarded with untruth, the food of youth.
Untrue she was : yet, I believ'd her eyes (instructed spies)
Till I was taught, that Love was but a School to breed a fool.
Or sought she more by triumphs of denial, to make a trial
How far her smiles commanded my weakness? yield and confess,
Excuse no more thy folly; but for Cure, blush and endure
As well thy shame, as passions that were vain: and think, 'tis gain
To know, that Love lodg'd in a Womans brest, Is but a guest.

poem by Henry Wotton
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Sir Henry Wotton, and Serjeant Hoskins Riding On The Way

Ho. Noble, lovely, vertuous Creature,
Purposely so fram'd by Nature
To enthral your servants wits.

Wo. Time must now unite our hearts:
Not for any more deserts,
But because (me thinks) it fits.

Ho. Dearest treasure of my thought,
And yet wert thou to be bought
With my life, thou wert not dear.

Wo. Secret comfort of my mind,
Doubt no longer to be kind,
But be so and so appear.

Ho. Give me love for love again,
Let our loves be clear and plain,
Heaven is fairest, when 'tis clearest.

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poem by Henry Wotton
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On A Bank As I Sate A Fishing: A Description Of The Spring

And now all Nature seem'd in love,
The lusty sap began to move;
New juice did stir th'embracing Vines,
And Birds had drawn their Valentines:
The jealous Trout, that low did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled flie:
There stood my Friend, with patient skill
Attending of his trembling quill.
Already were the Eves possest
With the swift Pilgrims daubed nest.
The Groves already did rejoyce
In Philomels triumphing voice.
The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smil'd.
June takes her neat-rub'd Pale, and now
She trips to milk the Sand-red Cow;
Where for some sturdy foot-ball Swain,
June strokes a sillabub or twain.
The Fields and Gardens were beset
With Tulip, Crocus, Violet:

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poem by Henry Wotton
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