To the Queen.
THou great Commandress, that doest move
Thy Scepter o'r the Crown of Love,
And through his Empire with the Awe
Of Thy chaste beames, doest give the Law,
From his prophaner Altars, we
Turn to adore Thy Deitie:
He only can wild lust provoke,
Thou, those impurer flames canst choke;
And where he scatters looser fires,
Thou turn'st them into chast desires:
His Kingdome knowes no rule but this,
What ever pleaseth lawfull is;
Thy sacred Lore shewes us the path
Of Modesty and constant faith,
Which makes the rude Male satisfied
With one fair Female by his side;
Doth either sex to each unite,
And sorme love's pure Hermophradite.
To this Thy faith, behold the wild
Satyr already reconcil'd,