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Yett when her warme redeeminge hand, which is A Miracle, and made such, to worke more, Doth touch thee (Saples leafe) thou growest by this Her creature, glorified more then before Then as A Mother which delights to heare Her early chyld, Misspeake halfe vttred wordes, Or because Maiestie doth never feare Ill or bold speech, Shee Audience affordes. And then cold, speech-les wretch, thou diest againe And wisely: What discorse is left for thee? From speech of ill, and her, thou mvst abstaine, And is there any good, which is nott shee? Yett maiest thou praise her seruants, though not her And Witt, and Vertue, and honor her attend, And Since they are but her clothes, thou shalt not erre, If thou her shape, and beawtie, and grace commend. Who knowes thy Destiny? when thou hast donne Perchance her Cabinett may harber thee Whether all Noble, Ambitious Witts do runne, A Nest allmost as full of Good, as shee. When thou art there, If any whome wee knowe Were saud before, And did that heauen partake When shee revolues his Papers, marke what showe Of fauour shee alone to them doth make. |
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