|
| Manure thy selfe then, to thy selfe be'approv'd, |
| And with vaine outward things be no more mov'd, |
| But to know that I love thee'and would be lov'd. |
|
| To Sr Henry Wootton. |
|
| Here's no more newes, than vertue.'I may as well |
| Tell you Calis, or Saint Michaels tales, as tell |
| That vice doth here habitually dwell. |
|
| Yet, as to get stomachs, we walk up and downe, |
| And toyle to sweeten rest: so, may God frowne, |
| If, but to loath both, I haunt Court, or Towne. |
|
| For, here, no one is from th'extremitie |
| Of vice, by any other reason free, |
| But that the next to him, still, is worse than hee. |
|
| In this worlds warfare, they whom rugged Fate, |
| (Gods Commissary,) doth so throughly hate, |
| As in'the Courts Squadron to marshall their state: |
|
| If they stand arm'd with seely honesty, |
| With wishes, prayers, and neat integritie, |
| Like Idians 'gainst Spanish hosts they be. |
|
| Suspitious boldnesse to this place belongs, |
| And to have as many eares as all have tongues; |
| Tender to know, tough to acknowledge wrongs.
|
[CW: Beleeve] |