|
| To the Countesse of Bedford. |
|
Madame
Honour is so sublime perfection [191] |
| And so refin'd, that when God was alone |
| And creaturelesse, at first, himselfe had none |
|
| But, as of th'Elements, these w.ch wee tread |
| Produce all things with w.ch wee are ioy'd or fedd |
| And those ar barren both aboue our head. |
|
| So from low persons doth all honor flow. |
| Kings, whome they would haue honord to vs showe |
| And but direct our Honor not bestow. |
|
| ffor when from herbes the pure parts must bee wonne |
| ffrom grosse by stilling, this is better donne |
| By despisd dongue then by the fire or Sunne. |
|
| Care not then, Lady, how low your praysers bee. |
| In labourers Ballads oft more piety |
| God finds then in Te Deums melody. |
|
| And ordnance raysd on Towers, so many mile |
| Send not theyr voyce, nor lust so long a while |
| As fires from th' Earths low vaults in Sicil Isle. |
|
| Should I say I liu'd darker then were true |
| Yor radiation can all clouds subdue. |
| But one, tis best light, to contemplate you. |
|
| You for whose body God made better clay |
| Or tooke Soules stuff, such as shall late decay |
| Or such as needes small change at the last day
|
[CW: This___] |