In Warlike form, and shake the glitt’ring Spear. 
  At Agincourt so terrible they stood,
  So when Pictavian Fields were dy’d with Blood. 
  The Royal Youth with Emulation glows,
  And pours thick Vengeance on his ghastly Foes. 
  Troops of Commission’d Angels from the Sky,
  Unseen, above Him, and about Him, Fly. 
  O’er England’s Hopes their flaming Swords they hold,
  And wave them, as o’er Paradise of Old. 
  Nor shall they cease a Nightly Watch to keep,
  But, ever waking, bless him in his Sleep. 
  Their Golden Wings for his Pavilion spread,
  Their softest Mantles for his Downy Bed,
  Defend the Sacred Youth’s Imperial Head.

[8] The Duke of Glouceiter. Here the Author laments he prov’d so bad a Prophet.

    After whose Conquests, and the Work of Fate,
  The Arts and Muses on his Triumph wait. 
  The Streams of Thamisis, exulting, Ring,
  When fair Augusta’s lofty Clio’s Sing
  Granta and Rhedycina’s Tuneful Throng
  Fill the resounding Vales with Learned Song.

    Live, Heav’nly Youth, beyond invidious Time,
  Adorning Annals, and immortal Rhyme. 
  Thy Glories, which no Malice can obscure,
  Bright as the Sun, shall as the Sun endure. 
  But on thy Fame no envious spots shall prey,
  Till English Sense and Valour shall decay. 
  Till Learning and the Muses Mortal grow,
  Or Cam or Isis shall forget to Flow.