|
| I bid thee not doe this to be my spie; |
| Nor to make my self her familiar; |
| But so much I do love her choyce, that I |
| Would fain love him that shall be lov'd of her. |
|
| To the Countess of Bedford. |
|
| Honour is so sublime perfection, |
| And so refin'd; that when God was alone |
| And creatureless at first, himself had none; |
|
| But as of the elements, these which we tread, |
| Produce all things with which we are joy'd or fed, |
| And, those are barren both above our head: |
|
| So from low persons doth all honour flow; |
| Kings, whom they would have honoured, to us show, |
| And but direct our honour, nor bestow. |
|
| For when from herbs the pure part must be won |
| From gross, by stilling, this is better done |
| By despis'd dung, than by the fire or Sun: |
|
| Care not then Madam, 'how low your praises ly; |
| In labourers ballads oft more piety |
| God finds, than in Te deums melody. |
|
| And, Ordinance rais'd on Towers, so many mile |
| Send not their voyce, nor last so long a while, |
| As fires from th'earths low vaults in Sicil Isle. |
|
| Should I say I liv'd darker then were true, |
| Your radiation can all clouds subdue, |
| But one, 'tis best light to contemplate you.
|
[CW: You] |