|
| Beleeve me sir, in my youths giddiest dayes, |
| When to be like the Court was a playes praise, |
| Playes were not so like Courts, as Courts like plaies. |
|
| Then let us at these mimique antiques jeast, |
| Whose deepest projects, and egregious gests |
| Are but dull Morals of a game at Chests. |
|
| But now 'tis incongruitie to smile, |
| Therefore I end; and bid farewell a while. |
| At Court: though from Court, were the better stile. |
|
| To the Countesse of Bedford. |
|
MADAM,
Reason is our Soules left hand, Faith her right, |
| By these we reach divinitie, that's you; |
| Their loves who have the blessing of your light, |
| Grew from their reason, mine from faire faith grew. |
|
| But as, although a squint left-handednesse |
| Be'ungracious, yet we cannot want that hand: |
| So would I, (not to encrease, but to expresse |
| My faith) as I beleeve, so understand. |
|
| Therefore I study you first in your Saints, |
| Those friends whom your election glorifies; |
| Then in your deeds, accesses and restraints, |
| And what you reade, and what your selfe devise.
|
[CW: But] |