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Honor is so sublime perfection, And so refind, that when God was alone, And Creatureles, att first him selfe had none. But as of the Elementes, thes which wee tread Produce all things, with which wee are ioyd, or fed, And those are barren both aboue our head So from lowe Persons, doth all honour flowe; Kynges, whome they would haue honord, to vs showe And but direct our honour, nott bestowe. For when from herbes, the pure partes mvst bee wonne. From Grosse by stilling. This is better donne By despised Donge, then by the fire or Sun. Care not then, Maddam, how low your praiers ly; In laborers Balads of more Pietie God findes, then in Te Deums melodie. And Ordinance raisd on towres, so Manie Mile Send not there Voice, nor last so long a while, As fires from the Earthes low Vaults in Sicill Isle. Should I saie, I liud darker then were true Your Radiation can all clowdes subdue But one, tis best light to contemplate you. Yow for whose bodie God made better clay: Or tooke Soules stuffe, such as shall late decay, Or such as needes small change att the last daye. [CW: This] |
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