ENGLAND'S CAESAR.  
His majesties most Royal Coronation.  
Together with the manner of the solemn shows prepared for the honour of his entry into the City of London.  
Eliza. her Coronation in Heaven. And London's sorrow for her visitation.  
By Henry Petowe.  
LONDON, Printed by john Windet, for Matthew Law, and are to be sold at his Shop at the sign of the Fox in Paul's Churchyard. 1603.   

TO THE CURTEOUS and wise young Gentlemen united in Love, Master N. H. Master Ro. W. Master I. H. Master L. K. Master H. A. and Master Tho. S. Henry Petowe wisheth increase of virtue and prosperous success in all their affairs.  
I Have adventured (courteous, virtuous, and wise) with the strong wrestlers of Olympia, though not to win, yet to work for the Garland, I mean the Laurel wreath of your gentle favours. The judgement of my labours relieth on your several censures, whereof if your opinions relish but one small taste of content, I presume upon a general liking of others; such is the sufficiency I conceive of your discrete judgements. Therefore touch and taste, taste and digest but with such contentment that you may applaud the fruitful operation. How it will prove I know not, but I hope pleasant in disgesture: For however the fruits of my toil now relish after the long gathering, I dare protest the tree from whence they were plucked, came of a Royal stock; make therefore your several choices of the best, and if you find some more green than others, impute it to their want of growth in that they are but young, and not come to their true perfection, or rather blame my rashness, that make sale of them for mellow fruit, when indeed they are not ripe. But in hope they will all prove delicious according to your expectations, I present them in all love to your kind acceptances, promising as much in affection as any other can perform in perfection. Therefore look and like of such as you find, and I promise you (under your favourable encouragements) to employ all my best designs and studies to your several good like.  
Yours in all that he may, H. P.   

Ad Lectorem.  
GO princely writ appareled in love,  
The poison of all sorrows to remove:  
Enrich thyself and me by thyself riches,  
And strive to mount beyond our Poets pitches.  
And thou kind Reader, reading this my writ,  
Applaud the invention of an infant wit.  
Though young it be, it hath as good a heart,  
To merit well, as those of high desert.  
Then blame it not although for Fame it strive,  
For after death Fame still remains alive.  
Thine in all love, H. P.   


The Induction.  

Now turn I wandering all my hope again,  
And lose them from the prison of despair,  
Ceasing my tears that did bedew the plain,  
And clearing sighs which did eclipse the air.  
My mourning weeds are off, and sigh I may not,  
joy stops my tears, and (joying) weep I cannot.   

Nor tongue, nor pen, nor wit can truly sing,  
His wondrous worth and matchless dignity,  
I mean the glory of the English King,  
Which wraps my Muse in all felicity.  
Oh, were my pen so rich in Poetry,  
As to portray his royal Majesty.   

But since she is not as I would she were,  
And since I cannot as I wish I could.  
No marvel though her weakness do forbear,  
To sing that Royal song which all pens should.  
Yet what she can she will for love compile,  
Not seeking glory for a stately style.   

Go joyful truce-men in your virgin weeds,  
Under a Royal Patron I have passed you,  
Soak up the tears of every heart that bleeds,  
And on the wings of Fame hence quickly hast you.  
And from the silver main of Calmy Thames,  
Sound forth the worth of our Heroic james.   

Into the ears of drooping London thunder,  
The King of peace and plenty sallies by:  
Bid her rejoice in him our English wonder,  
Who mourns to see her in extremity.  
He mourns for her even at his Coronation,  
'Twill grieve her soul to taste his Royal passion.  
Yet London thou art happy by his tears,  
That weeps for thee, whom all the world else fears.    

HIS majesties MOST Royal Coronation.  
WIthin the Table of Eternity,  
In leaves outwaring Brass shall Fame write down,  
With Quills of Steel the lasting memory,  
Of England's Caesar, and great Caesar's Crown.  
Give place ye silent shadows of black night,  
And let the brightest Lamp of Heaven shine,  
Vanish thou Time of Dreams, for to delight,  
This jeme must be surveyed with Angels eyen.  
Angels as bright as is the brow of Heaven,  
When near a Cloud hangs lowering in the Sky,  
When foggy mists are from the Sphere bereven,  
And Angels beauty Mates with heavens eye.  
Such Sunne-bright Angels with a smiling face,  
Must England's Caesar's Coronation grace.  
Mount high my Soul the Harbinger of light,  
Plays jocand Music to the welcome day,  
Aurora blushes and the sable night,  
Unto the ruddy morning gives fair way.  
From forth th'eastern clime behold the Sun,  
Shines on the Turrets of great Caesar's Tower,  
And summons him to ware what he hath won,  
By true succession what brow dares to lower,  
Or contradict the will of mighty jove,  
He'll have it so for England's future bliss,  
Our King is his anointed dearest love,  
And what we have we farm it but as his.  
Then like true liegemen let our voices sing,  
Glory to God that he may bless our King.  
This is the day, yea this the happy day,  
Makes Heaven smile, and Tellus weep for joy,  
Even from her dry parched womb a liquid sea,  
Of Crystal water issuing o'er the bay.  
Of the o'er joyed earth, of my jocund Soul,  
Canst thou forbear excess, surfeit and die,  
My thoughts of joy are far beyond control.  
My Spirit in a blissful ecstasy.  
See see the azure firmament is clear,  
Through which we may discern as in a glass,  
Fair troops of Angels that do gild the Spheres.  
Gaze settled eyes the like sight never was.  
Rejoice fair England for thy Sovereign pray,  
Angels themselves grace this triumphant day.  
But stay my Pen, my Muse doth gin to slumber,  
And slumbering dreams a dream of sacred bliss,  
Oh happy vision wake and tell this wonder,  
Awake my Soul, my Pen write what it is.  
Me thought fair Tryton with his silver Trump,  
(As if he progra'st to the Parliament,  
Of all the Gods) sounds not a solemn dump,  
But with a flourish, wraps heaven in content.  
Next him the winged Mercury doth pace,  
Clad in rich robes by Vesta's virgins wrought,  
Who on his shoulder bears a Golden mace,  
Enchased with glorious Pearl (oh heavenly thought)  
What then succeeds, this object after seen?  
Delia triumphant which was late our Queen.  
On whose right hand attended Ganymed,  
Darling to Heaven and the pride of jove,  
By other hand was she by Cupid led,  
Venus' fair issue and the God of love.  
Thus paced triumphant Delia to her throne,  
The chaste Dyana bearing up her train,  
Then followed the Senses one by one,  
Touching their silver strings with sweetest strain.  
Next them dread jove with juno in his hand,  
Apollo next with Pallas arm in arm.  
Then Berecynthia with a silver wand,  
Mars, Neptune, Vulcan, all the Elysian swarm,  
Of Nectar sucking Gods and Goddesses,  
Measuring the silver pau'ment of the Skies.  
Oh happy sight! But what ensued then,  
Delia's installment in the throne of Bliss,  
Stay busy thoughts. Oh stay my forward Pen.  
At which rare triumph th'infernal Souls of Dis,  
Made stay of torment and did feel no pain,  
Tantalus that time did taste the pleasant fruit,  
Which never till that hour he could attain.  
The busy murmur of the Dam'de was mute.  
Ixion's wheel that (ceaseless) evertournd,  
Stayed then in spite of Fate (Oh time of wonder)  
The Sulphur flames of hell, which ever burnt.  
Were then extinced what then could Hell keep under.  
Under subjection Pluto had no Soul,  
So much the powers of Heaven did hell control.  
Poor Sisyphus whose toil was endless pain,  
When he perceived his tumbling stone lie still,  
And when those triumphs ceased, to role again▪  
From top to bottom of that tedious hill.  
Then Lamentation drenched in tears of woe,  
Yell's forth a horrid cry, why changeth Time,  
Why do the powers of Heaven deride us so.  
Why mount our joys? and at the highest decline.  
Oh welcome mynet of most sweet delight,  
Why left it us so soon, come once again,  
Shake hands with us once more in hell's despite.  
That we may taste of joy in midst of pain.  
No no (unhappy Souls) it cannot be,  
Ye now are ever swayed by Destiny.  
Delia's in Heaven, there let Eliza stay,  
Crowned with the wreath of everlasting bliss.  
Descend my Muse tread thou an other way,  
See that thy daring quill stray not amiss,  
Let thy sweet tunes harp on divinest song,  
Base not at all, but on a treble String,  
Warble a high streynd Hymn with silver tongue,  
To lawd the Coronation of a King.  
A King whose virtues make the Muse's labour,  
Striving which most and best may sing his praise,  
Begging no pension but the world's kind favour,  
For singing james in their celestial lays.  
james England's King defender of the faith,  
Long may he be so, so his England prai'th.  
Gaze London gaze, that surfet'st with a longing,  
To see thy Sovereign's Coronation day:  
Thy people jocund in a dangerous thronging,  
Lift up their voices; on their heartstrings play,  
Crying Hail C●sar with a shrill tongued strain:  
Caesar the princely Author of their peace,  
Whose very name pierced through the liver vain  
Of hot Rebellion, weakened her increase,  
Of long wished streams of blood: the name of King  
Made forward Insurrection start and die.  
Oh wholesome North from forth whose womb did spring,  
The blessed Sun of our felicity.  
Shine Sun on us, but when our souls mount high,  
Let thy bright beams gild our posterity.  
He comes he comes, see London where he comes,  
That claspeth peace and plenty in his arms!  
Embrace him kindly, Time's glass how quick it runes:  
Be thou as quick, and with some heavenly Charms,  
Mixed with the milk of prayer, juice of zeal,  
Lie groveling in the dust in the midway:  
And let not pass the solace of thy weal,  
Before he hear thy harmless Orphans pray.  
Pray London pray, with hands heaved to the skies,  
And let each able Infant, smile sing,  
Hymns from their hearts, for such to heaven flies,  
In honour of King JAMES our lawful King.  
Hold fast his forelock, and make stay of Time,  
Till he doth hear our hearts how true they chime.  
Heaven stand at gaze, ye blessed Angels see,  
Look through the Windows of the firmament,  
Upon the Phoenix of all Sovereignty:  
Bid heavens ELIZA from that continent,  
Where she sits crowned in bliss: bid her look down  
On princely JAMES her dear succeeding brother:  
To see him go triumphant to his Crown,  
Beloved of those that whilom called her mother:  
Bid her but look if that her princely will,  
Be not performed even to our utmost duty:  
In all obedience: our true hearts fulfil  
Her dread command: late Earth's now Heavens beauty!  
She willed us love him, and in love persever,  
And we do vow to love King JAMES for ever.  
So long as life in him or breath in us,  
So long we vow in sight of God and Heaven:  
Oh might our prayers be propitious,  
That our dread King may never hence be'reauen!  
Then should Belphoebe know her subjects love:  
What care they have in training up their young:  
That to her great Successor they may prove,  
Loyal in duty that from virtue sprung.  
When she shall see from her celestial Sphere;  
And he on earth perceive his subjects zeal,  
How in their hearts they do affect him dear,  
And he in peace maintain the common weal:  
Both Heaven and Earth will then rejoice and sing,  
A happy people and a blessed King.  
ope wide ye Orient gates of Caesar's tower;  
Caesar himself with a most royal train  
Must grace your golden leaves, this is the hour,  
Fly open then for Caesar's entertain.  
Usher his way, my Muse say that he comes,  
At whose uprise Phoebus doth stand at gaze,  
Thinking the Heavens had ordained two Suns;  
One for the earth, which made heavens Sun amaze.  
Such is the glory of his reflecting gleams,  
Composed of sacred metal: made by jove  
That night turns day when as he darts his beams,  
Frowns into smiles such is his princely love.  
Then London smile, let no brow dare to frown,  
When Royal james rides to his regal Crown.  
Thus should the flinty pavements of the street,  
Be clad in green (th' apparel of the spring)  
As if their joy were young, and therefore sweet:  
And being sweet, a present for a King.  
The houses Mantled all in Tapestry,  
The high Pyramids of the church's thunder,  
Eyes never saw such glorious royeltie,  
The pride of London and the English wonder.  
The sinews of the City Troynovant,  
Clad in their richest robes in comely sort,  
Whose fair demeanour draws like Adaman,  
Spectators hearts, bearing so rich a port.  
Thus should they sit railed in on either side  
Of every street twixt whom our King should ride.  
Suppose this done, what glory hath been seen,  
Within the compass of the earth like this:  
At Coronation of a King or Queen,  
No Marvel he's elected King of bliss.  
Room greedy multitude, let th'air of heaven  
Breath everlasting life into his soul,  
To make him all immortal: jove make even  
The years of JAMES with Nestor's, and control  
The vile pretences and Inventions  
Of Traitorous thoughts: if any slave there be  
Repining at his state, and by Inventions  
Of privy Treason, seek our misery.  
Thou most of might if any such there be,  
Confound him in his thought of Treachery.  
He shines like Phoebus in the welkin's breast,  
So may he shine for ever on this I'll,  
Darting his crimson rays from his bright crest,  
And from his gladsome face a gracious smile:  
And see that Sun whose bewties of such power,  
As daz●eth all spectators eyes (oh wonder!)  
The eye of day looks pale at this blessed hour,  
As if his glory had brought Phoebus under.  
Oh blessed Sun, keep thy diurnal course,  
May never be extinct thy radiant light:  
But as thy glory glisters on the source  
Of silver Thamesis (Water-nymphes delight)  
So London in her bosom hopes to see,  
Triumphant JAMES in all his royalty.  
Oh thou that only canst, forbear thy rod  
Of fell correction, we will sin no more:  
Oh thou eternal Essence, only God;  
Now London feels thy scourge, she doth deplore  
Her mass of sin; oh she doth weep at heart:  
Thy visitation doth in force her weep,  
She wants her Sovereign which procures her smart.  
His sight would lull her in her joys a sleep:  
But thou sayst no, for by thy mighty hand,  
What she and hers intended to perform  
In JAMES his honour, thou dost countermand;  
And mak'st her know, that she is but a Worm.  
A Worm that hath her being from thy power,  
And must not dare but stoop when jove doth lower.  
And now thou frownest, oh she doth quake for fear:  
Her hands are daily heaved to the skies,  
With impetrations, that thou wouldst forbear.  
See how trill tears distill from her moist eyes?  
How can a Mother choose, but ever weep,  
When as her children loathe their native bed?  
Her young ones in her bosom will not sleep,  
But to a forrayve fosterer are fled.  
Yet like a Mother she doth daily pray,  
Thou wouldst not note such disobedience:  
But to be merciful to them that stray,  
And in their loss to give her patience.  
She weeps for loss of them which now are gone,  
Thinking thereby to shun correction.  
But who knows not thy power is every where?  
In City, Country, both on Land and Sea?  
Then do we think thou canst not touch us there?  
Yes yes, 'tis too apparent every day.  
But stay great glory of eternity,  
We do confess thy might almighty force,  
Be merciful to us in misery,  
And for thy dear anointed, take remorse.  
Smooth thy deep furrowed front, shriu'led with ire:  
Open thine ears unto our sad complaints:  
Let us at last rejoice in our desire,  
And help weak London that now helpless faints.  
For while thou frownest, alas she fears to die:  
And but to thee she knows not where to fly.  
Thou mad'st the sore; but who can give the cure?  
Thou gav'st the blow, but who can salve the wound?  
Thou prickest the heart, but who can help procure?  
Thou mad'st the bruise, but who can make it sound?  
Thou all in all canst salve, make sound, and cure  
The sore, the blow, the wound, yea more than this,  
Thy ministering is present help, 'tis sure:  
And he that prays to thee, prays not amiss.  
Deign then dread Lord from thy high throne of grace,  
Where Angels praise thee with divinest song,  
To look on London with a smile face,  
And break thy rod which she hath felt too long.  
Then will her friends draw near, and she shall see,  
Her long wished Sovereign, in his royalty.  
For him she weeps, for JAMES his want she morns:  
Want of his presence, that should gild her streets  
For want of him, in passion she burns,  
And from her residence all comfort fleets.  
Thousands of treasure hath her bounty wasted  
In honour of her King to welcome him:  
But woe is she, that honour is not tasted,  
For royal JAMES on silver Thames doth swim.  
The Water hath that glory, for he glides  
Upon the peatly main unto his Crown:  
And looks with pity on London as he rides,  
Saying, alas thou shouldst have this renown.  
So well he knew that woeful London loved him.  
That her distress unto compassion moved him.  
And from his royal love thus doth he greet her,  
Before the glancy Isacles of Winter  
By heat of Sun be molten, he will meet her  
In all her pomp, till when of joy he'll stint her.  
Mean time he wills her teach her young to pray  
That heavens almighty may surcease his hand:  
For when he hears of such an happy day,  
He leglad the Chamber of the Fairy Land.  
Then shall her shows, and princely ornaments;  
Her famous Pageants (London's solemn pride)  
Be at the full, and surfeit with contents;  
Such joy shall mantle her on every side:  
Where JAMES shall ride▪ Conduits shall flow with wine  
In honour of his state and happy time.  
This is the day that should have famed our City,  
But that the hand of God lies heavy on it:  
All you that know it, cry alas 'tis pity,  
And pray jehova may look down upon it:  
Whose joys like shadows took their sudden flight;  
Whose weal is fleeting like deluding sleep:  
That in an hour mix sorrow with delight,  
Her paths to joy, is tedious, long and steep.  
Give period all-almightie to her plaint:  
Unhappy London, witty in selfe-grieving;  
Let her now joy, let grief no longer taint  
Her tender heart that makes her woe her living.  
Let her now smile, and as she smileth sing:  
Glory to God, and God preserve the King.   
FINIS.