Thomas Bancroft Poems

It was in heate of summer height of noone,
When at the Sunne the Dog--starre seeme to bay,
(Like Wolues of Syria at the shining Moone,)
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To Belgium goes the gallant Knight,
Avoids Ebbrezza's lewd delight:
And rings (to anger highly stirr'd)
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Not as enamour'd on the various plume
Of a light phansie, doe I here presume
To your straight iudgement in an oblique line
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Our worthy Lover takes his way
Towards farre--fam'd Eutopia,
Finds there Fidelta, claimes his prize,
And triumphs in connubial joyes.
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To William Davenport, Esquire.
Your native sweetnesse, which you often have
Diffus'd to others, boldens me to crave
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What? will my cloudy forehead never clear?
Shall I the arms of Sorrow ever bear
Crost 'bout my Skeleton? and shall mine eye
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Of honour'd parents Antheon bred,
And in green years well seasoned,
Is loth his lineage to belie,
But aimes at true nobility.
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The young Knight of Fidelta hears,
And thinks her praises tune the spheres;
Seeks her through Italy in vaine,
But finds Aselgia with her train.
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The Knight, that in Italian ground
No footsteps of Fidelta found,
Travells int' France, with Robbers fights,
And Alazonia's profers slights.
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To Greece th' unwearied Lover hyes,
All obvious dangers doth despise;
A huge impetuous Serpent slayes,
And on the ground a Braggart layes.
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