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| To the Countesse of Bedford. |
| On New-yeares day. |
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| This twilight of two yeares, not past nor next, |
| Some embleme is of me, or I of this, |
| Who (Meteor-like, of stuffe and forme perplext, |
| Whose what and where, in disputation is,) |
| If I should call me any thing, should misse. |
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| I summe the yeares, and me, and finde me not |
| Debtor to th'old, nor Creditour to th'new, |
| That cannot say, My thankes I have forgot, |
| Nor trust I this with hopes, and yet scarce true. |
| This bravery is since these times shew'd me you. |
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| In recompence I would shew future times |
| What you were, and teach them to urge towards such. |
| Verse embalmes vertue;'and Tombes, or Thrones of rimes, |
| Preserve fraile transitory fame, as much |
| As spice doth bodies from corrupt aires touch. |
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| Mine are short-liv'd; the tincture of your name |
| Creates in them, but dissipates as fast, |
| New spirits; for, strong agents with the same |
| Force that doth warme and cherish us, doe waste; |
| Kept hot with strong extracts, no bodies last:
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[CW: So] |