Fair fame, who act ordained to crown
With ever green, and great renown,
Their heads, that envy would hold down
With her, in shade

Of death, and darkness; and deprive
Their names of being kept alive,
By thee, and conscience, both who thrive
By the just trade

Of goodness still: vouchsafe to take
This cradle, and for goodness' sake,
A dedicated ensign make
Thereof, to time.

That all posterity, as we,
Who read what the crepundia be,
May something by that twilight see
'Bove rattling rhyme.

For, though that rattles, timbrels, toys,
Take little infants with their noise,
As properest gifts, to girls, and boys,
Of light expense;

Their corals, whistles, and prime coats,
Their painted masks, their paper boats,
With sails of silk, as the first notes
Surprise their sense:

Yet, here are no such trifles brought,
No cobweb cauls; no surcoats wrought
With gold, or clasps, which might be bought
On every stall.

But, here's a song of her descent;
And call to the high parliament
Of heaven; where seraphim take tent
Of ordering all.

This, uttered by an ancient bard,
Who claims (of reverence) to be heard,
As coming with his harp, prepared
To chant her 'gree,

Is sung: as als' her getting up
By Jacob's ladder, to the top
Of that eternal port kept ope
For such as she.