If thou our Prince set forth in colours fit,
Let Maiestie (inthron'd) in's Countenance sit.
On's lips let Pitho, on's brows let Pallas rest.
Let Mildnes be his rosie cheeks chief Guest.
Let ioyfull Victorie o'r his locks hover.
Let his eye-lids the Graces grace discover.
But, if thy Skill this reach not, say; Alas,
How farre doth Natvre, Art (her Page) surpass!