THE VOTE, OR A poem royal, PRESENTED TO HIS majesty for a new-years-gift. By way of Discourse twixt the Poet, and his Muse.  
Calendis Januariis 1642.  
London, Printed by Thomas Badger, 1642.   


POEMA  
Στρηνετικον.  
THe world's bright Eye, Times measurer, begun  
Through watery Capricorn his course to run,  
Old Janus hastened on, his temples bound  
With Ivy, his grey hairs with holly crowned;  
When in a serious quest, my thoughts did muse,  
What Gift, as best becoming, I should choose,  
To Britain's Monarch (my dread sovereign) bring  
Which might supply a new-year's offering.  
I rummaged all my stores, and searched my cells  
Where nought appeared, god wot, but bagatells:  
No far fetched Indian gem, cut out of rock,  
Or fished in shells were trusted under lock,  
No piece which Angelo's strong fancy hit,  
Or titians' pencil, or rare Hyliards wit,  
No Ermines, or black-sables, no such skins,  
As the grim Tartar hunts, or takes in begins:  
No Medails, or rich stuff of Tyrian dye,  
No costly bowls of frosted argentry,  
No curious landscape, or some Marble piece  
digged up in Delphos, or elsewhere in Greece,  
No Roman Perfumes, Buffs, or Cordovan  
Made drunk with Ambar by Moreno's hands,  
No arras, or rich carpets freighted o'er  
The surging Seas from Asia's doubtful shore,  
No lion's cub, or beast of strange aspect,  
Which in Numidia's fiery womb had slept,  
No old Toledo blades, or Damaskins,  
No Pistols, or some rare-springed Carrabins,  
No Spanish Ginet, or choice stallion sent,  
From Naples, or hot Africa's continent,  
In fine, I nothing found, I could descry  
Worthy the hands of Caesar or his eye.  
My wits were at a stand, when, lo, my Muse  
(None of the choir, but such as they do use  
For laundresses or handmaids of mean rank  
I knew sometimes on Po and Isis' banks)  
Did softly buzz.  Muse. 
Then let me something bring,  
My handsel the new-year to CHARLES my King,  
May usher in bifronted Janus—  Poet. 
Thou fond foolhardy Muse, thou silly Thing,  
Which 'mongst the shrubs & reeds dost use to sing,  
Dar'st thou peck up, and the tall Cedar climb,  
And venture on a King with gingling rhyme?  
Though all thy words were pearl, thy letters gold,  
And cut in rubies, or cast in a mould  
Of diamonds, yet still thy lines would be  
To mean a gift for such a majesty.  Muse. 
I'll try; and hope to pass without disdain  
In New-yeares-gifts the mind stands for the main,  
The Sophy, finding 'twas well meant, did deign  
Few drops of running water from a swain,  
Then sure 'twill please my Liege, if I him bring,  
Some gentle drops from the Castalian spring.  
Though Rarities I want of such account,  
Yet have I something on the forked mount.  
Nor is't the first, or third access I made  
To Caesar's feet, and thence departed glad.  
For as the Sun with his male heat doth render  
Nile's muddy slime fruitful, and apt t'engender,  
And daily to produce new kinds of creatures  
Of various shapes, and thousand differing features,  
So is my fancy quickened by the glance  
Of His benign aspect and countenance,  
It makes me pregnant, and to superfaete,  
Such is the vigour of His beams and heat.  
Once in a vocal Forest I did sing,  
And made the oak to stand for CHARLES my King,  
The best of trees, whereof (it is no vaunt  
The greatest schools of Europe ring and chant)  
There you shall also find Dame ARHETINE,  
Great Henry's daughter, and Great Britain's Queen,  
Her name engraven in a laurel tree,  
And so transmitted to Eternity.  
For now I hear that Grove speaks besides mine,  
The language of the Loire, the Po, and Rhyne,  
(And to my Prince (my sweet Black Prince) of late,  
I did a youthful subject dedicate.)  
Nor do I doubt but that in time, my Trees  
Will yield me fruit to pay Apollo's fees,  
To offer up whole hecatombs of praise  
To Caesar, if on me he cast his rays.  
And if my lamp have oil, I may compile  
The modern Annals of great Albion's Isle,  
To vindicat the truth of CHARLES his reign,  
From scribbling Pamphletors, who story stain  
With loose imperfect passages, and thrust  
Lame things upon the world, ta'en up in trust.  
I have had Audience (in another strain)  
Of Europe's greatest Kings, when German main  
And the Cantabrian waves I crossed, I drank  
Of Tagus, Seine, and sat at Tiber's bank,  
Through Scylla & Charybdis I have steerd,  
Where restless AEtna, belching flames, appeerd,  
By Greece, once Pallas' garden, than I passed,  
Now all ore spread with Ignorance and wast.  
Nor hath fair Europe her vast bounds throughout  
An Academe of note I found not out.  
But now I hope in a successful prore,  
The Fates have fixed me on sweet England's shore,  
And by these various wanderings true ay found,  
Earth is the common Mother, every ground  
May be one's country, for by birth each man  
Is in this world a Cosmopolitan  
A freeborn burgess, and receives thereby  
His denization from Nativity:  
Nor is this world, at best, but a huge Inn,  
And men the rambling passengers, wherein  
Some warm lodgings find, & that as soon  
As out of Nature's closets they see no one,  
And find the table ready laid; but some  
Must for their commons trudg, and shift for room:  
With easy pace some clime Promotions Hill,  
Some in the Dale, do what they can, stick still.  
Some through false glasses smiling Fortune spy,  
Who still keeps off, though she appears hard by:  
Some like the Ostrich, with their wings do flutter,  
But cannot fly, or soar above the gutter,  
Some quickly fetch and double Good-Hopes Cape,  
Some ne'er can do'tthough the same course they shape:  
So that poor mortals are so many balls  
Tossed, some o'er line, some under Fortune's walls.  
And it is Heavens high pleasure Man should lie  
Obnoxious to this partiality,  
That by Industrious ways he should contend,  
Nature's short pittance to improve and mend.  
And Industry ne'er failed, at last, t'advance  
Her patient sons above the reach of Chance.  Poet. 
But whither rov'st thou thus?  
Well; since I see thou art so strongly bent,  
And of a gracious look so confident,  
Go, and throw down thyself at Caesar's feet,  
And in thy best attire thy sovereign greet,  
Go, An auspicious and most blissful year,  
Wish Him, as e'er shined o'er this hemisphere,  
Good may the Entrance, better the middle be,  
And the Conclusion best of all the three,  
Of joy ungrudged may each day be a debtor,  
And every morn still usher in a better,  
May the soft gliding Nones and every Ide,  
With all the Calends still some good betide,  
May Cynthia with kind looks, & Phoebus' rays,  
One clear his Nights, the other guild his days.  
Free limbs, unphysicked health, due appetite,  
Which no sauce else but Hunger may excite,  
Sound sleeps, and sanguine dreams, which represent,  
Symptoms of health, and the next days content;  
Cheerful and vacant thoughts, not always bound  
To counsel, or in deep Ideas drowned:  
(Though such late traverses and tumults might  
Turn to a lump of care the ayriest wight)  
And since, while fragile flesh doth us array  
The humours still are combating for sway,  
(Which were they free of this reluctancy  
And counterpoysed Man would immortal be)  
May sanguine o'er the rest predominat  
In Him, and their malignant flux abate.  
May his great Queen (in whose Imperious eye  
Raigne's such a world of winning Majesty)  
Like the rich Olive, or Falernian Vine,  
Swell with more gems of scions masculine;  
And as Her fruit sprung from the Rose and Luce,  
(The best of stems Earth yet did ere produce)  
Is tied already by a Sanguine lace  
To all the Kings of Europe's highborne race,  
So may they shoot, their youthful branches o'er,  
The surging seas, and graft with every shore.  
May home-commerce, and Trade increase from far,  
That both the Indies meet within his bars,  
And bring in Mounts of coin His mints to feed,  
And bankers (Trafique's chief supporters) breed,  
Which may enrich his kingdoms, Court and town,  
And ballast still the Coffers of the the crown,  
For Kingdoms are as ships, the Prince his chests  
The ballast, which if empty, when distressed  
with storms, their holds are lightly trimmed, the keel  
Can run no steady course, but toss and reel.  
May his imperial Chamber always ply  
To his desires, her wealth to multiply,  
That she may prize his royal favour more  
Than all the wares fetched from the great Mogor,  
May the Great senate with the subjects right  
Put in the Counter-scale, the regal might  
The flowers of th'Crown, that they may prop each other,  
And like the Grecian's twin live, love together.  
For the chief glory of a people is  
The power of their King, as Their is His.  
May He be still within himself at home,  
That no just passion make the reason room,  
Yet Passions have their turns, to rouse the soul,  
And stir her slumbering Spirits not control,  
For as the Ocean besides ebb and flood,  
(which Nature's greatest Clerk ne'er understood)  
Is not for sail, if an impregning wind  
Fills not the flagging canvas, so a mind  
Too calm, is not for Action, if desire  
heats not itself at passion's quickening fire,  
For Nature is allowed sometimes to muster  
Her passions, so they only blow, not bluster.  
May justice still in her true scales appear,  
And honour fixed in no unworthy sphere,  
Unto whose palace all access should have  
Through virtue's Temple, not through Pluto's Cave.  
May his true subjects hearts be his chief Fort,  
Their purse his treasure, and their Love his Port  
Their prayers, as sweet Incense, to draw down  
Myriads of blessings on his Queen and crown.  
And now that his glad presence, did assuage,  
That fearful tempest in the North did rage,  
May those frogg-vapours in the Irish sky,  
Be scattered by the beams of Majesty,  
That the Hibernian lyre give such a sound,  
May on our coasts with joyful echoes bound.  
And when this fatal planet leaves to lower,  
Which to to long on Monarchies doth pour  
His direful influence, may Peace once more  
Descend from Heaven on our tottering shore,  
And ride in triumph both on land and main,  
And with her milk-white steeds draw Charles his wain,  
That so for those Saturnian times of old,  
An age of pearl may come in lieu of Gold.  
Be all his thoughts borne perfect, and his hopes,  
In their events fall out beyond their scopes,  
virtue still guide his course, and if there be  
A thing as Fortune Him accompany.  
May no ill Genius haunt him, but by's side,  
The best protecting angel ever bide.  
May He go on to vindicate the right  
Of holy things, and make the Temple bright,  
To keep that Faith, that Sacred Truth entire  
Which He received from Solomon his sire.  
And since we all must hence, by th'Iron Decree,  
Stamped 'mongst the black Records of destiny,  
Late may his life, his Glory ne'er wear out,  
Till the great year of Plato wheel about.  
So prayeth The worst of Poets, to The best of Princes, yet The most loyal of His Votaries and vassals, James Howell.   


a Arthetine, id est, virtuous. Anagram of Henrieta.  
b The parliament.  
c Hippocrates.  
d King James.