Ad Authorem Poem by John Ashmore

The Argvment.
Till his Sire true doe claim his due,
This Infant I doe cherish:
Though without name, it were a shame
It should in darknes perish.
Remember, when blinde Fortune knits her brow,
Thy minde be not deiected over-lowe:
Nor let thy thoughts too insolently swell,
Though all thy hopes doe prosper ne'r so well.
For, drink thy teares, with sorrow still opprest,
Or taste pure wine, secure and ever blest,
In those remote, and pleasant shady fields
Where stately Pine and Poplar shadow yeelds,
Or circling streames that warble, passing by;
All will not help, sweet friend: For, thou must die.
The house, thou hast, thou once must leave behind thee,
And those sweet babes thou often kissest kindly:
And when th'hast gotten all the wealth thou can,
Thy paines is taken for another man.
Alas! what poor advantage doth it bring,
To boast thy selfe descended of a King!
When those, that haue no house to hide their heads,
Finde in their grave as warm and easie beds.