VOX SECVNDA populi. OR, The Commons gratitude to the most honourable PHILIP, Earl of Pembroke and Mongomery, for the great affection which he always bore unto them.  
By Tho. Herbert.  
My reward is from above.  
Printed in the year 1641.   

To the right honourable Philip Herbert, Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery, Baron Herbert of Cardife, and Shirland, Lord Parr and Roos, of Kendal, Marmion, & Saint Quintine, Lord Warden of the Stanaties in the County of Devon, and Cornwall, Lord lieutenant of Kent, Cornwall, Summersault, and Wiltes, Lord Chamberlain to his majesty, Knight of the most noble Order of the Garter, Chancellor of the university of Oxford, and one of his majesty's most honourable privy Counsel.  
Great SIR,  
THe fancy of my Muse is forced to pause.  
If that your Honour do require the cause,  
'Tis this, I was not able to express  
In you, what is Great Britain's happiness.  
I long was wooed to write your deserved praise,  
And by so doing, promised was the bays,  
Which Caesar's Virgil wore, but tender years  
To write that subject, filled my Muse with fears;  
But yet again a Herbert's name did move  
Me for to write, and in't express my love,  
Or rather duty, to your honour's fame,  
Who as yet did ne'er deserve the least blame,  
Which envy would enforce; Pardon I crave,  
That is the boon which I alone would have,  
From you (great Sir.) Alas I was too bold,  
For to write that, I do know you hold  
As nothing; it is your sole desire  
To inflame England with a zealous fire.  
THOMAS HERBERT.   

BEfriend me Apollo, lend me Orpheus lire,  
T' enchant the ears of men, make them admire:  
Take home my Muse unto thy clearest spring,  
And wash her clean, then teach her how to sing  
Heroic strains; for I must dedicate  
This Poem to a man that scorns curled fate:  
he's true to King and country, all will say;  
The clouds of treason ne'er eclipsed his day.  
Some angel dropped a quill from out his wing,  
And bade me write, whilst he called Fame to sing.  
O glorious Cl●o, wash my muddy brain,  
And teach me write some high aspiring strain,  
such as might make the starry host to wonder,  
And make great Jove forget that he can thunder.  
But I'm amazed, and this is all I fear,  
Jove thinks himself not safe whilst Pembroke's here.  
Methinks I see how Mars looks pale to see  
A man in arms, more brave, more stout than he:  
And Neptune tell't, his skill upon the main  
Is more than can be expressed by my dull strain;  
And Hermes offers him the greatest odds,  
To yield him Messenger unto the gods.  
Once Venus viewed him as he walked to see  
The Spring adorned in her green livery:  
She straight forgot Adonis, and grew coy  
To her aspiring Mart, and called him Boy.  
Wished him look down upon the fertile earth,  
Who had out-shone bright heaven by his birth.  
Hebe was so o'ercome with his bright eyes,  
she'd like to have drowned the bright translucent skies.  
Looking on him, she stumbled, all appalld,  
The place she died with Nectar, Galactia called;  
Nor is it heaven alone admires to see  
This royal man, this brave epitome  
Of all true virtue, he is the world's wonder,  
Men's shouts do clangor in the air as thunder.  
Have you not seen men holloo forth this strain,  
God save our King, and the Lord chamberlain?  
Have you not heard them whisper as you go,  
There goes Lord Pembroke, terror to our Foe?  
The King doth hold him dear, the reason why,  
None of his race did with a tympany  
Of high aspiring treason break, but all  
Were true by proof, they were authentical.  
I'm struck with wonder, I cannot express,  
In his brave parts, our kingdom's happiness.  
I've seen some meteors glimmer in the sky;  
But after one brave blaze they fall and die.  
Your fixed stars, though, still keep their course and stand,  
As Vassals, Tendants to great Jove's command:  
To make reply, my Muse dares not aspire,  
he's sure to burn, that doth but touch the fire.  
he's sure a fool that strives to pull down stars,  
I must not speak, when any high wheel jars.  
'Tis now Vox Populi that is my theme,  
Come quick invention, from Parnassus' stream:  
Bring Tempe's sweetness on thy nimble wing,  
Perfume the bright air, which so loud shall ring  
At thy return, as did the youths of Troy,  
When they enjoyed brave Hector, Priam's joy.  
Touch the earth weeds, make them in sweetness join,  
With the fine planted fragrant Eglantine.  
As thou comest by make thou O Pembroke laugh,  
We write Encomiums not an Epitaph.  
When thou hast done this than return again  
And Helicon reward thee for thy pain.  
Give me that man that scorns the teeming earth,  
When it's in labour with abortive birth:  
He equals the best seconded by none,  
And Golden lines shall garnish his brave tomb.  
The common voice will always thus express,  
In the brave Herbert lies our happiness:  
Thou art that Hermes Usher to the sun,  
Thou art his guardian when the day is done:  
You are a Plague to Papists, friend to those,  
Who to base Antichrist are sworn foes.  
The Pope doth tremble at our Herbert's name,  
The Turks and Soldan heap your spreading fame.  
Let us rejoice and Io sing as loud  
As thunder shot from a divided cloud.  
Our King's the sun within our Horoscope,  
A terror to the devil and the Pope;  
Our Nobles are those fixed stars which do shine  
In their due place, each man in his line,  
Those who have strove t'usurp our great Jove's throne,  
My joys so great to them I cannot mourn.  
Brave Pembroke hath so filled our hearts with joy,  
The Commons cry this is the pride of Troy.  
One that will venture each limb with his life,  
To keep the Vulgar from all foreign strife.  
O what a joyful thing it was to hear,  
How we not long since lovingly did cheer.  
The Commons hearts, when Justice they did crave,  
He pawned his Honour, Justice they should have.  
Which to the Commons did give such content,  
As that their prayers quick to heaven they sent.  
That more such peers in England he would send,  
So should all Taxes cease, and schisms end.  
Another said, had Wentworth been like him,  
He had not feared in bloody streams to swim.  
Or if that Fiend, a third man he did say,  
Each man his verdict of him, did bring in,  
Not our convicting him of traitor's sin.  
His virtues all admired singing again,  
Long live our King Charles and his Lord chamberlain.  
Long live our King & crown him with such Peers,  
That he may reign most joyful many years.  
Your true hatched Eagle will not prey on flies,  
Nor good men blot themselves with treacheries:  
Virtue shall live, but infamy kills dead  
Each sprouting fortune in her maidenhead.  
You that are stained with treasons inky blot,  
And envy those men which as you are not,  
Look on our subject, Envy will grow mild,  
To hate this man none sure can be so vild.  
Shall the whole kingdom ring a peal of praise  
Unto your Honour, and shall not I raise  
My Ela strain, and stretch my throat to sing,  
Out-carol all our birds i'th' pleasant spring?  
But O! one virtue here among the rest  
I have observed, deserves the term of best:  
Your honour's humble deigning to give ear  
Unto the abjectst vassal that comes near  
Your honour; but pray pardon my dull pen,  
That I should foremost of an host of men  
Uncase my rustic Muse, which bawls so loud,  
As if begot of Ixion in a cloud.  
Your virtues do deserve a Virgil's strain,  
An Ovid's verse, and not a homespun brain.  
The splendour of your virtues dim the skies,  
Which I can't look on with a Buzzards eyes:  
Your sails spread high, with greatest fortunes flow,  
Excuse my gazing up, standing below.  
The Commons voice runs thus of you, I see  
The abstract of virtue, and epitome  
Of all Morality: He is the man  
That gains the hearts of all, do what all can.  
Methinks 'tis nonsense to gainsay the right,  
Or to deny the sunbeam gives clear light:  
Vox Populi doth speak, we all agree,  
Our best estates owe chamberlain a Fee,  
Which must be paid with love, for he loves all  
Which loyal are: Desert daserves no fall.  
O! had my Muse been eloquent to raise  
A fancy which might elevate the praise  
Of his scarce paralleled virtue, surely then,  
Writing his worth, I had got praise of men.  
But O, my wits were dull, I wanted strain,  
Calliope slept, she was not in the vain  
For to assist me. Ye Commons me excuse,  
If height of your good wishes I abuse:  
My wits were dull; but yet to after-age  
His merits shall be shown upon the stage.  
FINIS.