THE PORTRAIT OF WILLIAM MARQUIS of Newcastle To His LADY The LADY marchioness.  
LONDON, Printed by Thomas creak, 1660.   

The Portrait of WILLIAM MARQUIS of Newcastle.  
To his Lady, the Lady marchioness.  
LEt Painters with dull Lines, and Colours faint  
Go Portrait those whose bodies they Depaint,  
The Poet, more than painter's requisite,  
To Portrait one, who is all spirit and Wit.  
This nature seems full well t'have understood,  
Framing him as nigh Spirit as she could,  
Of bulk not big, to show Nobility,  
Does more i'th' mind's then body's greatness lie;  
Of Visage Aquiline, as best does fit  
A piercing Judgement, and a piercing Wit:  
And Flaxen hair, a colour does presage  
As well an Aged Youth, as Youthful Age.  
And who would see th' Epitomè of Wit  
Let them but read the Comedies h'as Writ,  
Whose Excellent VARIETIES do show  
That none the world and Men, does better know,  
Nor better understands the Art, than he,  
To gain them all by Noble courtesy  
Who have no greater happiness than when  
He speaks, nor greater unhappiness again,  
Then when he ceases speaking, his discourse  
H'as so much quickness, Energy, and force:  
For horsemanship and Arms then, there is none  
In our Age fit ●o Write, but he alone;  
As none to Judge of it can be so fit  
As those alone, who read what he has Writ;  
Surmounts the Macedon, in Managing  
The furious Beast, and that Albanian King  
In Arms, whose blows so Inevitable were,  
As none could Live, but those whom he wooed spare.  
This partly was in cause, his Prince did call  
Him, to the Honoured charge of General,  
When right was weak, if power were away,  
And Sword then sceptre boar the greater sway.  
Of which so brave account he rendered, he  
(Whilst Leader) still came off with Victory.  
Where 'twas his Valour, Conduct, Vigilance,  
(All which, in War, do oft command o'er chance)  
Or's popularity (as who commands  
Must have his soldier's Hearts, as well as Hands)  
Or finally, his Fortune 'bove the rest,  
What e'er it was, most certain 'tis the best  
Of other Leaders was or ' come, with th' same  
Army, with which he always overcame.  
But leaving's Warlike virtue now, to come  
To's civil ones, who looked on him at home,  
Imagined in his House they did not see  
A man, but God of Hospitality,  
Fed more at's Board, than nature at her Breast,  
When she's most bountiful, amongst the rest  
His Entertainment of the KING was such,  
The state so Royal, and expense so much,  
It ever will be questioned whe're that, or  
The Entertaining's Army cost him more.  
So far he went both in expense and state  
Above a Croesus, or Lucullus rate.  
'Bove all, he was so great a Cherisher  
Of arts and Learning, as 'tis doubted where  
The Air (by which they vital breath receive,  
The Common Aliment, of all that breath)  
To th' Lives o'th' Learned, did confer more Good,  
Then did his benefits, to their livelihood.  
From which contempt of riches 'twas, that he  
i'th' Common loss, lost all so cheerfully,  
Who in a Noble cause, no difference made  
twixt giving, and twixt losing all he had.  
Bravely in poverty, comforting himself  
That where no other way's t'arrive to wealth  
But by ignoble means, there's nothing more  
Becom's a Nobleman then to be poor.  
That petty Cottages when they ruined lie  
Turn all to dust and rubbish presently;  
But mighty palaces and structures, far  
More Venerable by their ruins are  
And in wild Woods, Robbers and thieves molest,  
Your thieves are known by going bravely dressed  
In others spoils, but th' honest man's best known  
By being robbed, and spoiled of his own.  
So stands he like some goodly oak had stood  
Long time the pride and glory of the Wood,  
By storms and winter, reft of all it's Leaves,  
Far more their harm, and detriment, receaves  
Shadow and shelter from it then its own,  
That's more itself, when all these leaves are gone.  
And if our spring tide ere again return  
(As w'are not under such a climate born  
To have t' perpetual winter) you shall see  
All flock again unto this Noble Tree  
And th' nymphs & swains of Sherwood with their lays,  
Dancing about it, chanting of its praise,  
And Crowning it flowers and laurel, when  
Welbeck and Bolswol shall behold again  
Their Noble Lord as flourishing and more  
Than e'er in better times, he was before,  
So prophecies (for Poets are Prophets too)  
The humblest honourer of him and you.  
MADAM, R. Flecknoe.