Musicke.
Phœbus gave me my voyce, which pleasant Thrushes
And Nightingals excels midst poplar bushes,
A touch which ravenous Tygers can make tame,
And with Amphions moods dull stones enflame,
The painters usuall error, King, you see,
My voice and lire still dumb and silent be.
But now your eyes give life, my picture singes,
And melody is made with voyce and strings.

Writing.
Behold two pens, this writes faire, that as fast
As the swift East winds quicke and nimble blast
This fell from great Joves snowie wing, when he
Turn'd swan, faire Leda, lay all night with thee.
That Iove turn'd eagle, dropt from heaven above,
When he the beauteous Phrygian lad did love.
They both expresse their birds, the first doth text
Fairly thy acts, (O King) swiftly the next.
Languages.
Vnder this roofe I rule the termes of speech,
And natives to speake forraign words I teach.
Here Spaniards, Germans hear their Country sound,
The French and warlike Roman here is found.
The Spaniard quicke, vehement th' Alman, neat
And lofty those whom Loyre and Tyber wet.
Their accents varie, yet all have one song,
Live Charles the father of this Country long.

Astronomie.
Heaven left, Astræa doth her selfe addresse
To these realms who thou, Charles, with peace dost blesse,
The Maid return'd for shelter, seeks thy wing,
Then which earth holds no better, juster thing.
By right she left the skye; when thy desert
Toucht it, she judg'd that thou far worthier wert.
Which though thou art, may it be long before
The suppliant Maid and world the gods implore.

Geometry.
While my wide compasse the huge world doth measure,
With all you see in earths or seas large treasure;
While in my scale I weigh the land and deepe;
And what ere Plutoes buried kingdomes keepe,
Gods gave thee Realms too small for thee to owne,
For, Charles, the earth's too little for thy throne.
And the Sage that did in finite worlds faine,
Would say thee worthy 'ore them all to raigne.
Medicine.
Phœbus, O Charles, hath trusted Medicine
To me, the hearbs of all the world are mine:
With those I root up sicknesse, poisons tame,
Equall to any Circe ere did frame.
This art's your peoples good, you have no part,
Whose health rests not on hearbs or doubtfull art,
Your teperance makes that no disease can harm you,
The publike love 'gainst poisons all doth arme you.

Arithmeticke.
My art in numbers the sea sands containes,
Sums al the blades of grasse on the green plains,
Tels all the motes that in the sun beames flye,
How many countlesse seeds in poppies lye,
Counts all the flames in heavens high rooft hall,
And drops of raine that from the South doe fall.
To tell thy Princely gifts, which all surmount,
Art findes her boord too short for her to count.

Chymicke.
My art the bowels of the earth survayes,
It melts and changes mettals thousand wayes.
Sol is my servant, Luna is my Maid,
Tribute by Mars and Venus me is paid.
Grave Saturne and too nimble Mercurie,
And Iove himselfe obeyes my emperie.
Accept me for your servant (mightiest King)
And all those gods will to you tribute bring.
Fencing.
Mars warlike armed lists my care hath gain'd,
I brandish weapons, but with no bloud stain'd.
Now British youth at home warres understand,
Doe strike with darts far off, with swords at hand,
Doe order armies, fortifie strong townes,
Doe quarter royall camps within their bounds.
Your foes, great Charles, er'st tam'd by multitude,
May when you please, by art, be now subdu'd.

Dancing.
Behold the heavens, and what is done by fate,
On the starres dances thinke and meditate.
They sometimes swiftly move, other whiles slow,
Now quavering, trembling retrograde they goe.
They part, they meet, now honour, now rise higher,
Mov'd by the sound of the æthereall lyre.
But here see Gallants dance, and you'le discerne,
The stars here dancing taught, or else did learne.