Englands Cæsar His Maiesties most royall coronation. Together with the manner of the solemne shewes prepared for the honour of his entry into the cittie of London. Eliza. her coronation in heauen. And Londons sorrow for her visitation. By Henry Petowe.

The Induction.

Now turne I wandring all my hope againe, And loose them from the prison of dispaire, Ceasing my teares that did bedew the plaine, And clearing sighes which did eclipse the ayre. My mourning weeds are off, and sigh I may not, Ioy stops my teares, and (Ioying) weepe I cannot.

Nor tonge, nor penne, nor witte can truly sing, His wondrous worth and matchlesse dignitie, I meane the glory of the English King, Which wraps my Muse in all felicitie. Oh, were my penne so rich in Poetrie, As to pourtray his royall Maiestie.

But since she is not as I would she were, And since I cannot as I wish I could. No maruell though her weakenes doe forbeare, To sing that Royall song which all pennes should. Yet what she can she will for loue compile, Not seeking glory for a stately stile.

Goe ioyfull truce-men in your virgin weedes, Vnder a Royall Patron I haue past you, Soake vp the teares of euery hart that bleeds, And on the wings of Fame hence quickly hast you. And from the siluer mayne of Calmy Thames, Sound forth the worth of our Heroicke Iames.

Into the eares of drooping London thunder, The King of peace and plentie sallies by: Bid her reioyce in him our English wonder, Who mournes to see her in extremitie. He mournes for her euen at his Coronation, T'will greiue her soule to taste his Royall passion. Yet London thou art happie by his teares, That weepes for thee, whom all the world else feares.