A Congratulary Poem ON THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Heneage Lord Finch, Baron of Daventry, Earl of Nottingham AND Lord High Chancellor OF ENGLAND.  
MY Lord, Ariststotle the Lerarned did say  
That Wit, and Virtue, always made the way  
for their Allies, to mount bright Honour's Chair,  
By rendering of them Excellent and Rare.  
A Man may rise in Greatness from his Blood,  
But unless he, be Virtuous and Good,  
He wanteth Weight, and equal Balance High,  
To make him truly Great, and from the Sky.  
Blood without Virtue, 'tis but only Nature,  
Without embellishing of the Creature,  
But when together, are in hand and hand,  
That Soul enjoys the Heavens and the Land.  
Blood without virtue's, but a dazzling Light,  
And blinds the Optics, more than clears the Sight.  
But when Companions are, in the same way,  
Honour comes up and makes her Holiday.  
Blood without Virtue, is too often Vain,  
Its Colour fading, because not died in Grain.  
But when with her, She Hawks up Honour high,  
Says the most Learned in Divinity.  
Virtue without Blood, does still make Honour  
Essentially so, from Heaven's great Donour.  
Since that's the Primum Mobile of all,  
Of things above, and below Terrestrial.  
By her, Men are great, and that of Course,  
For true Greatness flows from Heaven's Source.  
For what's nearest the thing, Logicians say.  
Enjoys that most, which we call Honour's day.  
The Arts cry out, they only Honour have,  
That understand how to be good and brave,  
Learned, Just, Pious, and from Reason high,  
As Men not born from Earth, but from the Sky.  
Wisdom relates, that she Commission hath,  
Honours to give, as she best pleaseth  
To her Allies, those things she doth bestow,  
That in ourselves may live, and not Mankind owe  
Any thing, but what out selves think Just,  
The surest way discharging any Trust,  
Wisdom's a Portion to the Sons of Men,  
The softer Sex to the fine Women.  
virtue's Honour still, and from on high,  
Honour without her, is but a Mystery;  
And not so, from Reason, Sense nor Story,  
Therefore I have done with Honours empty Glory.  
But your great Soul still moves on Honour true,  
Acted by th' powers above, above Red and Blue;  
It loves to live with you, and with you will die,  
And beyond the Grave shall keep you Company.  
Honour, the bright Star, from the Arts Spheres,  
Honour the gay Planet of our years,  
The Youth most beautiful, Charming and Fair,  
Courting the Maid Virtue, as in the Air,  
The Sun himself courts all things here below,  
And by its motion runs daily to and fro,  
Leading the Life of Love, as we do see,  
Makes Men and Beasts take their felicity.  
Nature, Blood, Wit, Art, Wisdom most high;  
Makes you so Rich, and so to signify.  
In that you are not singly, but doubly Great,  
By Fortune's Charms, and not by those of Fate,  
You are so excellent, and of such parts,  
Whether you will or no, you take all Hearts;  
Bringing them to their great and chief Delight,  
Their pains discharge, and settle them on the Right.  
Your Picture in your Character may see,  
As the Sun when smiling on a Willow Tree,  
There your perfections, are rendered bright and rare,  
As Angels Gay, do dance beyond the Air.  
There we may see enough, of one fine Man,  
That we we may imitate, and do the best we can;  
For that which we can't Copy, we must admire,  
As Persians do the Sun's bright Golden Fire,  
When this great Oak must be cut down to die  
By Death the Woodman and in the Grave to lie;  
It shall be set in the Orchard above,  
Near the purling River, of Heaven's great Love;  
Where it shall thrive, and be watered again,  
Pruned and be Trimmed, and there rejoice amain;  
And so receive from time to time such pleasure,  
Beyond Thought, Words, Fancy, and all Measure.  W.W.