Sonnet: Now the Peace is made at the Foes rate
To Generall Goring, after the pacification at Berwicke.
A la Chabot.
I
Now the Peace is made at the Foes rate,
Whilst men of Armes to Kettles their old Helmes translate,
And drinke in Caskes of Honourable Plate ;
In ev’ry hand a Cup be found,
That from all Hearts a health may sound
To Goring! to Goring! see 't goe round.
II
He whose Glories shine so brave and high,
That Captive they in Triumph leade each eare and eye,
Claiming uncombated the Victorie,
And from the Earth to Heav’n rebound
Fixt there eternall as this Round
To Goring! to Goring! see him Crown’d.
III
To his lovely Bride in love with scars,
Whose eyes wound deepe in Peace, as doth his sword in wars ;
They shortly must depose the Queen of Stars:
Her cheekes the Morning blushes give,
And the benighted World repreeve,
To Lettice! to Lettice! let her live.
IV
Give me scorching heat, thy heat dry Sun,
That to this payre I may drinke off an Ocean
Yet leave my grateful thirst unquensht, undone ;
Or a full Bowle of heav’nly wine,
In which dissolved Stars should shine
To the Couple! to the Couple! th’ are Divine.
