|
| And in your afternoones thinke what you told |
| And promis'd him, at morning prayer before. |
|
| Let falshood like a discord anger you, |
| Else be not froward. But why do I touch |
| Things, of which none is in your practise new, |
| And Tables, or fruit-trenchers teach as much. |
|
| But thus I make you keepe your promise Sir, |
| Riding I had you, though you still stay'd there, |
| And in these thoughts, although you never stirre, |
| You came with me to Micham, and are here. |
|
| To Mr Rowland Woodward. |
|
| Like one who'in her third widdowhood doth professe |
| Her selfe a Nunne, tyed to retirednesse, |
| So'affects my Muse, now, a chast fallownesse. |
|
| Since she to few, yet to too many'hath flowne, |
| How long loves weeds, and Satyrique thornes are grown |
| Where seeds of better arts, were early sown? |
|
| Though to use, and love Poëtry, to mee, |
| Betroth'd to no'one Art, be no'Adultery; |
| Omissions of good, ill, as ill deeds bee.
|
[CW: For] |