Lord BACONS Birth-day.

HAile, happie Genius of this antient pile!
 How comes it all things so about the smile?
The fire, the wine, the men! and in the midst,
Thou stand'st as if some Mysterie thou did'st!
Pardon, I read it in thy face, the day
For whose returnes, and many, all these pray:
And so doe I. This is the sixtieth yeare
Since Bacon, and thy Lord was borne, and here;
Sonne to the grave wise Keeper of the Seale,
Fame, and foundation of the English Weale.
What then his Father was, that since is hee,
Now with a Title more to the Degree;
Englands high Chancellor: the destin'd heire
In his soft Cradle to his Fathers Chaire,
Whose even Thred the Fates spinne round, and full,
Out of their Choysest, and their whitest wooll.
  'Tis a brave cause of joy, let it be knowne,
For 't were a narrow gladnesse, kept thine owne.
Give me a deep-crown'd-Bowle, that I may sing
In raysing him the wisdome of my King.
[@ Jonson, Under-Woods (Herford 225)]