A New-Yeares Gift to My Lorde Duke of Buckingham

When I can pay my parents, or my king,For life, or peace, or any dearer thing;Then, dearest lord, expect my debt to youShall bee as truly paid, as it is due.But, as no other price or recompenceServes them, but love, and my obedience;So nothing payes my lord, but whats aboveThe reach of hands, ’tis vertue, and my love.“For, when as goodnesse doth so overflow,“The conscience bindes not to restore, but owe:”Requitall were presumption; and you mayCall mee ungratefull, while I strive to pay.Nor with a morall lesson doe I shift,Like one that meant to save a better gift;Like very poore, or counterfeite poore men,Who, to preserve their turky or their hen,Doe offer up themselves: No; I have sentA kind of guift, will last by being spent,Thankes sterling: far above the bullion rateOf horses, hangings, jewells, or of plate.O you that know the choosing of that one,Know a true diamond from a Bristow stone:You know, those men alwaies are not the bestIn their intent, that lowdest can protest:But that a prayer from the convocation,Is better than the commons protestation.Trust those that at the test their lives will lay,And know no arts, but to deserve, and pray:Whilst they, that buy preferment without praying,Begin with broyles, and finish with betraying.

A Londoner born, was second son of William Aylesbury by Anne his wife,daughter of John Poole, esq., and from Westminster School removed toChrist-Church, Oxford, in 1598, where he became a fellow-student withCorbet, and where, on the 9th of June 1605, they took the degree ofmaster of arts together.

My brother and much more, hadst thou been mine,Hadst thou in one rich present of a lineInclos’d sir Francis, for in all this storeNo gift can cost thee less, or binde me more;Hadst thou (dear churle) imparted his return,I should not with a tardy welcome burn;But had let loose my joy at him long since,Which now will seem but studied negligence:But I forgive thee, two things kept thee from it,First such a friend to gaze on, next a comet;Which comet we discern, though not so trueAs you at Sion, as long tayl’d as you;We know already how will stand the case,With Barnavelt of universal grace,Though Spain deserve the whole star, if the fallBe true of Lerma duke and cardinal:Marry, in France we fear no blood, but wine;Less danger’s in her sword, than in her vine.And thus we leave the blazers coming over,For our portents are wise, and end at Dover:And though we use no forward censuring,Nor send our learned proctors to the king,Yet every morning when the star doth rise,There is no black for three hours in our eyes;But like a Puritan dreamer, towards this lightAll eyes turn upward, all are zeal and white:More it is doubtful that this prodigyWill turn ten schools to one astronomy:And the analysis we justly fear,Since every art doth seek for rescue there;Physicians, lawyers, glovers on the stall,The shopkeepers speak mathematics all;And though men read no gospels in these signes,Yet all professions are become divines;All weapons from the bodkin to the pike,The masons rule and taylors yard alikeTake altitudes, and th’ early fidling knavesOn fluits and hoboyes made them Jacobs-staves;Lastly of fingers, glasses we contrive,And every fist is made a prospective:Burton to Gunter cants, and Burton hearsFrom Gunter, and th’ exchange both tongue and earsBy carriage: thus doth mired Guy complain,His waggon in their letters bears Charles-Wain,Charles-Wain, to which they say the tayl will reach;And at this distance they both hear and teach.Now, for the peace of God and men, advise(Thou that hast where-withal to make us wise)Thine own rich studies, and deep Harriots mine,In which there is no dross, but all refine:O tell us what to trust to, lest we waxAll stiff and stupid with his parallax:Say, shall the old philosophy be true?Or doth he ride above the moon, think you?Is he a meteor forced by the sun?Or a first body from creation?Hath the same star been object of the wonderOf our forefathers? Shall the same come underThe sentence of our nephews? Write and send,Or else this star a quarrel doth portend.

I went from England into France,Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance,Nor yet to ride or fence;Nor did I go like one of thoseThat do return with half a noseThey carried from hence.

But I to Paris rode along,Much like John Dory in the song,Upon a holy tide.I on an ambling nag did jet,I trust he is not paid for yet;And spur’d him on each side.

And to Saint Dennis fast we came,To see the sights of Nostre Dame,The man that shews them snaffles:Where who is apt for to beleeve,May see our Ladies right-arm sleeve,And eke her old pantofles;

Her breast, her milk, her very gownThat she did wear in Bethlehem town,When in the inn she lay.Yet all the world knows that’s a fable,For so good clothes ne’re lay in stableUpon a lock of hay.

No carpenter could by his tradeGain so much coyn as to have madeA gown of so rich stuff.Yet they, poor fools, think, for their credit,They may believe old Joseph did it,’Cause he deserv’d enough.

There is one of the crosses nails,Which whoso sees, his bonnet vails,And if he will, may kneel.Some say ’twas false, ’twas never so,Yet, feeling it, thus much I know,It is as true as steel.

There is a lanthorn which the Jews,When Judas led them forth, did use,It weighs my weight downright:But to believe it, you must thinkThe Jews did put a candle in ’t,And then ’twas very light.

There’s one saint there hath lost his nose;Another’s head, but not his toes,His elbow and his thumb.But when that we had seen the ragsWe went to th’ inn and took our nags,And so away did come.

We came to Paris on the Seine,’Tis wondrous fair, ’tis nothing clean,’Tis Europes greatest town.How strong it is I need not tell it,For all the world may easily smell it,That walk it up and down.

There many strange things are to see,The Palace and great Gallery,The Place Royal doth excel:The New Bridge, and the Statues there,At Nostre Dame, Saint Q. Pater,The Steeple bears the bell.

For learning, th’ Universitie;And for old clothes, the Frippery;The House the Queen did build.Saint Innocents, whose earth devoursDead corps in four and twenty hours,And there the King was kill’d:

The Bastile and Saint Dennis-street,The Shafflenist, like London-Fleet,The Arsenal, no toy.But if you’ll see the prettiest thing,Go to the court and see the King,O ’tis a hopeful boy.

He is of all his dukes and peersReverenc’d for much wit at ’s years,Nor must you think it much;For he with little switch doth play,And make fine dirty pyes of clay,O never king made such!

A bird that can but kill a fly,Or prate, doth please his majesty,’Tis known to every one.The duke of Guise gave him a parret,And he had twenty cannons for itFor his new galeon.

O that I ere might have the hapTo get the bird which in the mapIs called the Indian Ruck!I’de give it him, and hope to beAs rich as Guise, or Livine,Or else I had ill luck.

Birds round about his chamber stand,And he them feeds with his own hand;’Tis his humility.And if they do want any thing,They need but whistle for their king,And he comes presently.

But now then, for these parts he mustBe enstiled Lewis the Just,Great Henry’s lawful heir;When to his stile to add more words,They’d better call him King of Birds,Than of the great Navarre.

He hath besides a pretty quirk,Taught him by Nature, how to workIn iron with much ease.Sometimes to the forge he goes,There he knocks, and there he blows,And makes both locks and keys:

Which puts a doubt in every one,Whether he be Mars or Vulcan’s son,Some few believe his mother.But let them all say what they will,I came resolv’d, and so think still,As much the one as th’ other.

The people, too, dislike the youth,Alledging reasons, for, in truth,Mothers should honour’d be:Yet others say, he loves her ratherAs well as ere she lov’d his father,And that’s notoriously.

His queen, a pretty little wench,Was born in Spain, speaks little French,She’s nere like to be mother:For her incestuous house could notHave children which were not begotBy uncle or by brother.

Now why should Lewis, being so just,Content himself to take his lustWith his Lucina’s mate;And suffer his little pretty queen,From all her race that yet hath been,So to degenerate?

’Twere charity for to be knownTo love others children as his own,And why? It is no shame;Unless that he would greater beThan was his father Henery,Who, men thought, did the same.