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To the Countesse of Bedford.
MADAM,
You have refin'd me, and to worthiest things
Vertue, Art, Beautie, Fortune; now I see
Rarenesse, or use, not nature value brings;
And such, as they are circumstanc'd, they bee.
Two ills can nere perplex us, sin t'excuse;
But of two good things we may leave and chuse.
Therefore at Court, which is not vertues clime,
Where a transcendent height, (as, lownesse mee)
Makes her not be, or not show: all my rime
Your vertues challenge, which there rarest bee;
For, as dark texts need notes: there some must be
To usher vertue, and say, This is she.
So in the countrey'is beautie. To this place
You are the season, (Madam) you the day,
'Tis but a grave of spices, till your face
Exhale them, and a thicke close bud display.
Widow'd and reclus'd else, her sweets she'enshrines
As China, when the Sunne at Brasill dines.
Out from your chariot, morning breaks at night,
And falsifies both computations so;
Since a new world doth rise here from your light,
We your new creatures, by new recknings goe.

[CW: This]