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