SOme act of Loue's bound to reherse,

I thought to binde him, in my verse:

Which when he felt, Away (quoth hee)

Can Poets hope to fetter mee?

It is enough, they once did get

MARS, and my Mother, in their net:

I weare not these my wings in vaine.

With which he fled me: and againe,

Into my ri'mes could ne're be got

By any arte. Then wonder not,

That since, my numbers are so cold,

When Loue is fled, and I grow old.

THou art not, PENSHVRST, built to enuious show,

Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row

Of polish'd pillars, or a roofe of gold:

Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told;

Or stayre, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile,

And these grudg'd at, art reuerenc'd the while.

Thou ioy'st in better markes, of soyle, of ayre,

Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire.

Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport:

Thy Mount, to which the Dryads doe resort,

Where PAN, and BACCHVS their high feasts haue made,

Beneath the broad beech, and the chest-nut shade;

That taller tree, which of a nut was set,

At his great birth, where all the Muses met.

There, in the writhed barke, are cut the names

Of many a SYLVANE, taken with his flames.

And thence, the ruddy Satyres oft prouoke

The lighter Faunes, to reach thy Ladies oke.

Thy copp's, too, nam'd of GAMAGE, thou hast there,

That neuer failes to serue thee season'd deere,

When thou would'st feast, or exercise thy friends.

The lower land, that to the riuer bends,

Thy sheepe, thy bullocks, kine, and calues doe feed:

The middle grounds thy mares, and horses breed.

Each banke doth yeeld thee coneyes; and the topps

Fertile of wood, ASHORE, and SYDNEY'S copp's,

To crowne thy open table, doth prouide

The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side:

The painted partrich lyes in euery field,

And, for thy messe, is willing to be kill'd.

And if the high swolne Medway faile thy dish,

Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish,

Fat, aged carps, that runne into thy net.

And pikes, now weary their owne kinde to eat,

As loth, the second draught, or cast to stay,

Officiously, at first, themselues betray.

Bright eeles, that emulate them, and leape on land,

Before the fisher, or into his hand.

Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,

Fresh as the ayre, and new as are the houres.

The earely cherry, with the later plum,

Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come:

The blushing apricot, and woolly peach

Hang on thy walls, that euery child may reach.

And though thy walls be of the countrey stone,

They'are rear'd with no mans ruine, no mans grone,

There's none, that dwell about them, wish them downe;

But all come in, the farmer, and the clowne:

And no one empty-handed, to salute

Thy lord, and lady, though they haue no sute.

Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake,

Some nuts, some apples; some that thinke they make

The better cheeses, bring 'hem; or else send

By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend

This way to husbands; and whose baskets beare

An embleme of themselues, in plum, or peare.

But what can this (more then expresse their loue)

Adde to thy free prouisions, farre aboue

The neede of such? whose liberall boord doth flow,

With all, that hospitalitie doth know!

Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to eate,

Without his feare, and of thy lords owne meate:

Where the same beere, and bread, and selfe-same wine,

That is his Lordships, shall be also mine.

And I not faine to sit (as some, this day,

At great mens tables) and yet dine away.

Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by,

A waiter, doth my gluttony enuy:

But giues me what I call, and lets me eate,

He knowes, below, he shall finde plentie of meate,

Thy tables hoord not vp for the next day,

Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray

For fire, or lights, or liuorie: all is there;

As if thou, then, wert mine, or I raign'd here:

There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.

That found King IAMES, when hunting late, this way,

With his braue sonne, the Prince, they saw thy fires

Shine bright on euery harth as the desires

Of thy Penates had beene set on flame,

To entertayne them; or the countrey came,

With all their zeale, to warme their welcome here.

What (great, I will not say, but) sodayne cheare

Did'st thou, then, make 'hem! and what praise was heap'd

On thy good lady, then! who, therein, reap'd

The iust reward of her high huswifery;

To haue her linnen, plate, and all things nigh,

When shee was farre: and not a roome, but drest,

As if it had expected such a guest!

These, PENSHVRST, are thy praise, and yet not all.

Thy lady's noble, fruitfull, chaste withall.

His children thy great lord may call his owne:

A fortune, in this age, but rarely knowne.

They are, and haue beene taught religion: Thence

Their gentler spirits haue suck'd innocence.

Each morne, and euen, they are taught to pray,

With the whole houshold, and may, euery day,

Reade, in their vertuous parents noble parts,

The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts.

Now, PENSHVRST, they that will proportion thee

With other edifices, when they see

Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,

May say, their lords haue built, but thy lord dwells.

HOw blest art thou, canst loue the countrey, WROTH,

Whether by choice, or fate, or both;

And, though so neere the citie, and the court,

Art tane with neithers vice, nor sport:

That at great times, art no ambitious guest

Of Sheriffes dinner, or Maiors feast.

Nor com'st to view the better cloth of state;

The richer hangings, or crowne-plate;

Nor throng'st (when masquing is) to haue a sight

Of the short brauerie of the night;

To view the iewells, stuffes, the paines, the wit

There wasted, some not paid for yet!

But canst, at home, in thy securer rest,

Liue, with vn-bought prouision blest;

Free from proud porches, or their guilded roofes,

'Mongst loughing heards, and solide hoofes:

Along'st the curled woods, and painted meades,

Through which a serpent riuer leades

To some coole, courteous shade, which he calls his,

And makes sleepe softer then it is!

Or, if thou list the night in watch to breake,

A-bed canst heare the loud stag speake,

In spring, oft roused for thy masters sport,

Who, for it, makes thy house his court;

Or with thy friends; the heart of all the yeere,

Diuid'st, vpon the lesser Deere;

In autumne, at the Partrich makes a flight,

And giu'st thy gladder guests the sight;

And, in the winter, hunt'st the flying hare,

More for thy exercise, then fare;

While all, that follow, their glad eares apply

To the full greatnesse of the cry:

Or hauking at the riuer, or the bush,

Or shooting at the greedie thrush,

Thou dost with some delight the day out-weare,

Although the coldest of the yeere!

The whil'st, the seuerall seasons thou hast seene

Of flowrie fields, of cop'ces greene,

The mowed meddowes, with the fleeced sheepe,

And feasts, that either shearers keepe;

The ripened eares, yet humble in their height,

And furrowes laden with their weight;

The apple-haruest, that doth longer last;

The hogs return'd home fat from mast;

The trees cut out in log; and those boughes made

A fire now, that lend a shade!

Thus PAN, and SYLVANE, hauing had their rites,

COMVS puts in, for new delights;

And fills thy open hall with mirth, and cheere,

As if in SATVRNES raigne it were;

APOLLO'S harpe, and HERMES lyre resound,

Nor are the Muses strangers found:

The rout of rurall folke come thronging in,

(Their rudenesse then is thought no sinne)

Thy noblest spouse affords them welcome grace;

And the great Heroes, of her race,

Sit mixt with losse of state, or reuerence.

Freedome doth with degree dispense.

The iolly wassall walkes the often round,

And in their cups, their cares are drown'd:

They thinke not, then, which side the cause shall leese,

Nor how to get the lawyer fees.

Such, and no other was that age, of old,

Which boasts t'haue had the head of gold.

And such since thou canst make thine owne content,

Striue, WROTH, to liue long innocent.

Let others watch in guiltie armes, and stand

The furie of a rash command,

Goe enter breaches, meet the cannons rage,

That they may sleepe with scarres in age.

And shew their feathers shot, and cullors torne,

And brag, that they were therefore borne.

Let this man sweat, and wrangle at the barre,

For euery price, in euery iarre,

And change possessions, oftner with his breath,

Then either money, warre, or death:

Let him, then hardest sires, more disinherit,

And each where boast it as his merit,

To blow vp orphanes, widdowes, and their states;

And thinke his power doth equall Fates.

Let that goe heape a masse of wretched wealth,

Purchas'd by rapine, worse then stealth,

And brooding o're it sit, with broadest eyes,

Not doing good, scarce when he dyes.

Let thousands more goe flatter vice, and winne,

By being organes to great sinne,

Get place, and honor, and be glad to keepe

The secrets, that shall breake their sleepe:

And, so they ride in purple, eate in plate,

Though poyson, thinke it a great fate.

But thou, my WROTH, if I can truth apply,

Shalt neither that, nor this enuy:

Thy peace is made; and, when man's state is well,

'Tis better, if he there can dwell.

God wisheth, none should wracke on a strange shelfe:

To him, man's dearer, then t'himselfe.

And, howsoeuer we may thinke things sweet,

He alwayes giues what he knowes meet;

Which who can vse is happy: Such be thou.

Thy morning's, and thy euening's vow

Be thankes to him, and earnest prayer, to finde

A body sound, with sounder minde;

To doe thy countrey seruice, thy selfe right;

That neither want doe thee affright,

Nor death; but when thy latest sand is spent,

Thou maist thinke life, a thing but lent.

FAlse world, good-night: since thou hast brought

That houre vpon my morne of age,

Hence-forth I quit thee from my thought,

My part is ended on thy stage.

Doe not once hope, that thou canst tempt

A spirit so resolu'd to tread

Vpon thy throate, and liue exempt

From all the nets that thou canst spread.

I know thy formes are studyed arts,

Thy subtle wayes, be narrow straits;

Thy curtesie but sodaine starts,

And what thou call'st thy gifts are baits.

I know too, though thou strut, and paint,

Yet art thou both shrunke vp, and old,

That onely fooles make thee a saint,

And all thy good is to be sold.

I know thou whole art but a shop

Of toyes, and trifles, traps, and snares,

To take the weake, or make them stop:

Yet art thou falser then thy wares.

And, knowing this, should I yet stay,

Like such as blow away their liues,

And neuer will redeeme a day,

Enamor'd of their golden gyues?

Or, hauing scap'd, shall I returne,

And thrust my necke into the noose,

From whence, so lately, I did burne,

With all my powers, my selfe to loose?

What bird, or beast, is knowne so dull,

That fled his cage, or broke his chaine,

And tasting ayre, and freedome, wull

Render his head in there againe?

If these, who haue but sense, can shun

The engines, that haue them annoy'd;

Little, for me, had reason done,

If I could not thy ginnes auoyd.

Yes, threaten, doe. Alas I feare

As little, as I hope from thee:

I know thou canst nor shew, nor beare

More hatred, then thou hast to mee.

My tender, first, and simple yeeres

Thou did'st abuse, and then betray;

Since stird'st vp iealousies and feares,

When all the causes were away.

Then, in a soile hast planted me,

Where breathe the basest of thy fooles;

Where enuious arts professed be,

And pride, and ignorance the schooles,

Where nothing is examin'd, weigh'd,

But, as 'tis rumor'd, so beleeu'd:

Where euery freedome is betray'd,

And euery goodnesse tax'd, or grieu'd.

But, what we'are borne for, we must beare:

Our fraile condition it is such,

That, what to all may happen here,

If't chance to me, I must not grutch.

Else, I my state should much mistake,

To harbour a diuided thought

From all my kinde: that, for my sake,

There should a miracle be wrought.

No, I doe know, that I was borne

To age, misfortune, sicknesse, griefe:

But I will beare these, with that scorne,

As shall not need thy false reliefe.

Nor for my peace will I goe farre,

As wandrers doe, that still doe rome,

But make my strengths, such as they are,

Here in my bosome, and at home.

While we may, the sports of loue;

Time will not be ours, for euer:

He, at length, our good will seuer.

Spend not then his guifts in vaine.

Sunnes, that set, may rise againe:

But if once we loose this light,

'Tis, with vs, perpetuall night.

Why should we deferre our ioyes?

Fame, and rumor are but toyes.

Cannot we delude the eyes

Of a few poore houshold spyes?

Or his easier eares beguile,

So remoued by our wile?

'Tis no sinne, loues fruit to steale,

But the sweet theft to reueale:

To be taken, to be seene,

These haue crimes accounted beene.

KIsse me, sweet: The warie louer

Can your fauours keepe, and couer,

When the common courting iay

All your bounties will betray.

Kisse, and score vp wealthy summes

On my lips, thus hardly sundred,

While you breath. First giue a hundred,

Then a thousand, then another

Hundred, then vnto the tother

Adde a thousand, and so more:

Till you equall with the store,

All the grasse that Rumney yeelds,

Or the sands in Chelsey fields,

Or the drops in siluer Thames,

Or the starres, that guild his streames,

In the silent sommer-nights,

When youths ply their stolne delights.

That the curious may not know

How to tell 'hem, as thy flow,

And the enuious, when they find

What their number is, be pin'd.

FOllow a shaddow, it still flies you;

Seeme to flye it, it will pursue:

So court a mistris, shee denyes you;

Let her alone, shee will court you.

Say, are not women truely, then,

Stil'd but the shaddowes of vs men?

At morne, and euen, shades are longest;

At noone, they are or short, or none:

So men at weakest, they are strongest,

But grant vs perfect, they're not knowne.

Say, are not women truely, then,

Stil'd but the shaddowes of vs men?

VVHy, Disease, dost thou molest

Ladies? and of them the best?

Doe not men, ynow of rites

To thy altars, by their nights

Spent in surfets: and their dayes,

And nights too, in worser wayes?

Take heed, Sicknesse, what you doe,

I shall feare, you'll surfet too.

Liue not we, as, all thy stalls,

Spittles, pest-house, hospitalls,

Scarce will take our present store?

And this age will build no more:

'Pray thee, feed contented, then,

Sicknesse; onely on vs men.

Or if needs thy lust will tast

Woman-kinde; deuoure the wast

Liuers, round about the towne.

But, forgiue me, with thy crowne

They maintayne the truest trade,

And haue more diseases made.

What should, yet, thy pallat please?

Daintinesse, and softer ease,

Sleeked limmes, and finest blood?

If thy leanenesse loue such food,

There are those, that, for thy sake,

Doe enough; and who would take

Any paines; yea, thinke it price,

To become thy sacrifice.

That distill their husbands land

In decoctions; and are mann'd

With ten Emp'ricks, in their chamber,

Lying for the spirit of amber.

That for th'oyle of Talke, dare spend

More then citizens dare lend

Them, and all their officers.

That, to make all pleasure theirs,

Will by coach, and water goe,

Euery stew in towne to know;

Dare entayle their loues on any,

Bald, or blinde, or nere so many:

And, for thee, at common game,

Play away, health, wealth, and fame.

These, disease, will thee deserue:

And will, long ere thou should'st starue

On their beds, most prostitute,

Moue it, as their humblest sute,

In thy iustice to molest

None but them, and leaue the rest.

DRrinke to me, onely, with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leaue a kisse but in the cup,

And Ile not looke for wine.

The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,

Doth aske a drinke diuine:

But might I of IOVE's Nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,

Not so much honoring thee,

As giuing it a hope, that there

It could not withered bee.

But thou thereon did'st onely breath,

And sent'st it backe to mee:

Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,

Not of it selfe, but thee.

ANd must I sing? what subiect shall I chuse?

Or whose great name in Poets heauen vse?

For the more countenance to my actiue Muse?

HERCVLES? alas his bones are yet sore,

With his old earthly labours. T'exact more,

Of his dull god-head, were sinne. Ile implore

PHœBVS. No? tend thy cart still. Enuious day

Shall not giue out, that I haue made thee stay,

And foundred thy hot teame, to tune my lay.

Nor will I beg of thee, Lord of the vine,

To raise my spirits with thy coniuring wine,

In the greene circle of thy Iuy twine.

PALLAS, nor thee I call on, mankinde maid,

That, at thy birth, mad'st the poore Smith affraid,

Who, with his axe, thy fathers mid-wife plaid.

Goe, crampe dull MARS, light VENVS, when he snorts,

Or, with thy Tribade trine, inuent new sports,

Thou, nor thy loosenesse with my making sorts.

Let the old boy, your sonne, ply his old taske,

Turne the stale prologue to some painted maske,

His absence in my verse, is all I aske.

HERMES, the cheater, shall not mixe with vs,

Though he would steale his sisters PAGASVS,

And riffle him: or pawne his PETASVS.

Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake,

(Though they were crusht into one forme) could make

A beautie of that merit, that should take

My Muse vp by commission: No, I bring

My owne true fire. Now my thought takes wing,

And now an Epode to deepe eares I sing.

NOt to know vice at all, and keepe true state,

Is vertue, and not Fate:

Next, to that vertue, is to know vice well,

And her blacke spight expell.

Which to effect (since no brest is so sure,

Or safe, but shee'll procure

Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard

Of thoughts to watch, and ward

At th'eye and eare (the ports vnto the minde)

That no strange, or vnkinde

Obiect arriue there, but the heart (our spie)

Giue knowledge instantly,

To wakefull reason, our affections king:

Who (in th'examining)

Will quickly taste the treason, and commit

Close, the close cause of it.

Tis the securest policie we haue,

To make our sense our slaue.

But this true course is not embrac'd by many:

By many? scarse by any.

For either our affections doe rebell,

Or else the sentinell

(That should ring larum to the heart) doth sleepe,

Or some great thought doth keepe

Backe the intelligence, and falsely sweares,

Th'are base, and idle feares

Whereof the loyall conscience so complaines.

Thus, by these subtle traines,

Doe seuerall passions inuade the minde,

And strike our reason blinde.

Of which vsurping rancke, some haue thought loue

The first; as prone to moue

Most frequent tumults, horrors, and vnrests,

In our enflamed brests:

But this doth from the cloud of error grow,

Which thus we ouer-blow.

The thing, they here call Loue, is blinde Desire,

Arm'd with bow, shafts, and fire;

Inconstant, like the sea, of whence 'tis borne,

Rough, swelling, like a storme:

With whom who sailes, rides on the surge of feare,

And boyles, as if he were

In a continuall tempest. Now, true Loue

No such effects doth proue;

That is an essence, farre more gentle, fine,

Pure, perfect, nay diuine;

It is a golden chaine let downe from heauen,

Whose linkes are bright, and euen.

That falls like sleepe on louers, and combines

The soft, and sweetest mindes

In equall knots: This beares no brands, nor darts,

To murther different hearts,

But, in a calme, and god-like vnitie,

Preserues communitie.

O, who is he, that (in this peace) enioyes

Th'Elixir of all ioyes?

A forme more fresh, then are the Eden bowers

And lasting, as her flowers:

Richer then Time, and as Time's vertue, rare.

Sober, as saddest care:

A fixed thought, an eye vn-taught to glance;

Who (blest with such high chance)

Would, at suggestion of a steepe desire,

Cast himselfe from the spire

Of all his happinesse? But soft: I heare

Some vicious foole draw neare,

That cryes, we dreame, and sweares, there's no such thing,

As this chaste loue we sing.

Peace Luxurie, thou art like one of those

Who, being at sea, suppose,

Because they moue, the continent doth so:

No, vice, we let thee know

Though thy wild thoughts with sparrowes wings doe flye,

Turtles can chastly dye;

And yet (in this t'expresse our selues more cleare)

We doe not number, here,

Such spirits as are onely continent,

Because lust's meanes are spent:

Or those, who doubt the common mouth of fame,

And for their place, and name,

Cannot so safely sinne. Their chastitie

Is meere necessitie.

Nor meane we those, whom vowes and conscience

Haue fill'd with abstinence:

Though we acknowledge, who can so abstayne,

Makes a most blessed gayne.

He that for loue of goodnesse hateth ill,

Is more crowne-worthy still,

Then he, which for sinnes penaltie forbeares.

His heart sinnes, though he feares.

But we propose a person like our Doue,

Grac'd with a Phœnix loue;

A beautie of that cleere, and sparkling light,

Would make a day of night,

And turne the blackest sorrowes to bright ioyes:

Whose od'rous breath destroyes

All taste of bitternesse, and makes the ayre

As sweet, as shee is fayre.

A body so harmoniously compos'd,

As if Nature disclos'd

All her best symmetrie in that one feature!

O, so diuine a creature

Who could be false to? chiefly, when he knowes

How onely shee bestowes

The wealthy treasure of her loue on him;

Making his fortunes swim

In the full floud of her admir'd perfection?

What sauage, brute affection,

Would not be fearefull to offend a dame

Of this excelling frame?

Much more a noble, and right generous mind

(To vertuous moods inclin'd)

That knowes the waight of guilt: He will refraine

From thoughts of such a straine.

And to his sense obiect this sentence euer,

Man may securely sinne, but safely neuer.

VVHil'st that, for which, all vertue now is sold,

And almost euery vice, almightie gold,

That which, to boote with hell, is thought worth heauen,

And, for it, life, conscience, yea, soules are giuen,

Toyles, by graue custome, vp and downe the court,

To euery squire, or groome, that will report

Well, or ill, onely, all the following yeere,

Iust to the waight their this dayes-presents beare;

While it makes huishers seruiceable men,

And some one apteth to be trusted, then,

Though neuer after; whiles it gaynes the voyce

Of some grand peere, whose ayre doth make reioyce

The foole that gaue it; who will want, and weepe,

When his proud patrons fauours are asleepe;

While thus it buyes great grace, and hunts poore fame;

Runs betweene man, and man; 'tweene dame, and dame;

Solders crackt friendship; makes loue last a day;

Or perhaps lesse: whil'st gold beares all this sway,

I, that haue none (to send you) send you verse.

A present which (if elder writs reherse

The truth of times) was once of more esteeme,

Then this, our guilt, nor golden age can deeme,

When gold was made no weapon to cut throtes,

Or put to flight ASTREA, when her ingots

Were yet vnfound, and better plac'd in earth,

Then, here, to giue pride fame, and peasants birth.

But let this drosse carry what price it will

With noble ignorants, and let them still,

Turne, vpon scorned verse, their quarter-face:

With you, I know, my offring will find grace.

For what a sinne 'gainst your great fathers spirit,

Were it to thinke, that you should not inherit

His loue vnto the Muses, when his skill

Almost you haue, or may haue, when you will?

Wherein wise Nature you a dowrie gaue,

Worth an estate, treble to that you haue.

Beautie, I know, is good, and bloud is more;

Riches thought most: But, Madame, thinke what store

The world hath seene, which all these had in trust,

And now lye lost in their forgotten dust.

It is the Muse, alone, can raise to heauen,

And, at her strong armes end, hold vp, and euen,

The soules, shee loues. Those other glorious notes,

Inscrib'd in touch or marble, or the cotes

Painted, or caru'd vpon our great-mens tombs,

Or in their windowes; doe but proue the wombs,

That bred them, graues: when they were borne, they di'd,

That had no Muse to make their fame abide.

How many equall with the Argiue Queene,

Haue beautie knowne, yet none so famous seene?

ACHILLES was not first, that valiant was,

Or, in an armies head, that, lockt in brasse,

Gaue killing strokes. There were braue men, before

AIAX, or IDOMEN, or all the store,

That HOMER brought to Troy; yet none so liue:

Because they lack'd the sacred pen, could giue

Like life vnto 'hem. Who heau'd HERCVLES

Vnto the starres? or the Tyndarides?

Who placed IASONS ARGO in the skie?

Or set bright ARIADNES crowne so high?

Who made a lampe of BERENICES hayre?

Or lifted CASSIOPEA in her chayre?

But onely Poets, rapt with rage diuine?

And such, or my hopes faile, shall make you shine.

You, and that other starre, that purest light,

Of all LVCINA'S traine; LVCY the bright.

Then which, a nobler heauen it selfe knowes not.

Who, though shee haue a better verser got,

(Or Poet, in the court account) then I,

And, who doth me (though I not him) enuy,

Yet, for the timely fauours shee hath done,

To my lesse sanguine Muse, wherein she'hath wonne

My gratefull soule, the subiect of her powers,

I haue already vs'd some happy houres,

To her remembrance; which when time shall bring

To curious light, to notes, I then shall sing,

Will proue old ORPHEVS act no tale to be:

For I shall moue stocks, stones, no lesse then he.

Then all, that haue but done my Muse least grace,

Shall thronging come, and boast the happy place

They hold in my strange poems, which, as yet,

Had not their forme touch'd by an English wit.

There like a rich, and golden pyramede,

Borne vp by statues, shall I reare your head,

Aboue your vnder carued ornaments,

And show, how, to the life, my soule presents

Your forme imprest there: not with tickling rimes,

Or common places, filch'd, that take these times,

But high, and noble matter, such as flies

From braines entranc'd, and fill'd with extasies;

Moodes, which the god-like SYDNEY oft did proue,

And your braue friend, and mine so well did loue.

Who wheresoere he be........

Of any good minde, now: There are so few.

The bad, by number, are so fortified,

As what th'haue lost t'expect, they dare deride.

So both the prais'd, and praisers suffer: Yet,

For others ill, ought none their good forget.

I, therefore, who professe my selfe in loue

With euery vertue, wheresoere it moue,

And howsoeuer; as I am at fewd

With sinne and vice, though with a throne endew'd;

And, in this name, am giuen out dangerous

By arts, and practise of the vicious,

Such as suspect them-selues, and thinke it fit

For their owne cap'tall crimes, t'indite my wit;

I, that haue suffer'd this; and, though forsooke

Of Fortune, haue not alter'd yet my looke,

Or so my selfe abandon'd, as because

Men are not iust, or keepe no holy lawes

Of nature, and societie, I should faint;

Or feare to draw true lines, 'cause others paint:

I, Madame, am become your praiser. Where,

If it may stand with your soft blush to heare,

Your selfe but told vnto your selfe, and see

In my character, what your features bee,

You will not from the paper slightly passe:

No lady, but, at some time, loues her glasse.

And this shall be no false one, but as much

Remou'd, as you from need to haue it such.

Looke then, and see your selfe. I will not say

Your beautie; for you see that euery day:

And so doe many more. All which can call

It perfect, proper, pure, and naturall,

Not taken vp o' th' doctors, but as well

As I, can say, and see it doth excell.

That askes but to be censur'd by the eyes:

And, in those outward formes, all fooles are wise.

Nor that your beautie wanted not a dower,

Doe I reflect. Some alderman has power,

Or cos'ning farmer of the customes so,

T'aduance his doubtfull issue, and ore-flow

A Princes fortune: These are gifts of chance,

And raise not vertue; they may vice enhance.

My mirror is more subtile, cleere, refin'd,

And takes, and giues the beauties of the mind.

Though it reiect not those of FORTVNE: such

As bloud, and match. Wherein, how more then much

Are you engaged to your happy fate,

For such a lot! that mixt you with a state

Of so great title, birth, but vertue most,

Without which, all the rest were sounds, or lost.

'Tis onely that can time, and chance defeat:

For he, that once is good, is euer great.

Wherewith, then, Madame, can you better pay

This blessing of your starres, then by that way

Of vertue, which you tread? what if alone?

Without companions? 'Tis safe to haue none.

In single paths, dangers with ease are watch'd:

Contagion in the prease is soonest catch'd.

This makes, that wisely you decline your life,

Farre from the maze of custome, error, strife,

And keepe an euen, and vnalter'd gaite;

Not looking by, or backe (like those, that waite

Times, and occasions, to start forth, and seeme)

Which though the turning world may dis-esteeme,

Because that studies spectacles, and showes,

And after varyed, as fresh obiects goes,

Giddie with change, and therefore cannot see

Right, the right way: yet must your comfort bee

Your conscience, and not wonder, if none askes

For truthes complexion, where they all weare maskes.

Let who will follow fashions, and attyres,

Maintayne their liedgers forth, for forraine wyres,

Melt downe their husbands land, to poure away

On the close groome, and page, on new-yeeres day,

And almost, all dayes after, while they liue;

(They finde it both so wittie, and safe to giue.)

Let 'hem on poulders, oyles, and paintings, spend,

Till that no vsurer, nor his bawds dare lend

Them, or their officers: and no man know,

Whether it be a face they weare, or no.

Let 'hem waste body, and state; and after all,

When their owne Parasites laugh at their fall,

May they haue nothing left, whereof they can

Boast, but how oft they haue gone wrong to man:

And call it their braue sinne. For such there be

That doe sinne onely for the infamie:

And neuer thinke, how vice doth euery houre,

Eate on her clients, and some one deuoure.

You, Madame, yong haue learn'd to shunne these shelues,

Whereon the most of mankinde wracke themselues,

And, keeping a iust course, haue earely put

Into your harbor, and all passage shut

Gainst stormes, or pyrats, that might charge your peace;

For which you worthy are the glad encrease

Of your blest wombe, made fruitfull from aboue,

To pay your lord the pledges of chast loue:

And raise a noble stemme, to giue the fame,

To CLIFTON'S bloud, that is deny'd their name.

Grow, grow, faire tree, and as thy branches shoote,

Heare, what the Muses sing about thy roote,

By me, their priest (if they can ought diuine)

Before the moones haue fill'd their tripple trine,

To crowne the burthen which you goe withall,

It shall a ripe and timely issue fall,

T'expect the honors of great 'AVBIGNY:

And greater rites, yet writ in mysterie,

But which the Fates forbid me to reueale.

Onely, thus much, out of a rauish'd zeale,

Vnto your name, and goodnesse of your life,

They speake; since you are truely that rare wife,

Other great wiues may blush at: when they see

What your try'd manners are, what theirs should bee.

How you loue one, and him you should; how still

You are depending on his word, and will;

Not fashion'd for the court, or strangers eyes;

But to please him, who is the dearer prise

Vnto himselfe, by being so deare to you.

This makes, that your affections still be new,

And that your soules conspire, as they were gone

Each into other, and had now made one.

Liue that one, still; and as long yeeres doe passe,

Madame, be bold to vse this truest glasse:

Wherein, your forme, you still the same shall finde?

Because nor it can change, nor such a minde.

NOw that the harth is crown'd with smiling fire,

And some doe drinke, and some doe dance.

Some ring,

Some sing,

And all doe striue t'aduance

The gladnesse higher:

Wherefore should I

Stand silent by.

Who not the least,

Both loue the cause, and authors of the feast?

Giue me my cup, but from the Thespian well,

That I may tell to SYDNEY, what

This day

Doth say,

And he may thinke on that

Which I doe tell:

When all the noyse

Of these forc'd ioyes,

Are fled and gone,

And he, with his best Genius left alone.

This day sayes, then, the number of glad yeeres

Are iustly summ'd, that make you man;

Your vow

Must now

Striue all right wayes it can,

T' out-strip your peeres:

Since he doth lacke

Of going backe

Little, whose will

Doth vrge him to runne wrong, or to stand still.

Nor can a little of the common store,

Of nobles vertue, shew in you;

Your blood

So good

And great, must seeke for new,

And studie more:

Not weary, rest

On what's deceast.

For they, that swell

With dust of ancestors, in graues but dwell.

'T will be exacted of your name, whose sonne,

Whose nephew, whose grand-child you are;

And men

Will, then,

Say you haue follow'd farre,

When well begunne:

Which must be now,

They teach you, how.

And he that stayes

To liue vntill to morrow'hath lost two dayes.

So may you liue in honor, as in name,

If with this truth you be inspir'd,

So may

This day

Be more, and long desir'd:

And with the flame

Of loue be bright,

As with the light

Of bone-fires. Then

The Birth-day shines, when logs not burne, but men.

GOod, and great GOD, can I not thinke of thee,

But it must, straight, my melancholy bee?

Is it interpreted in me disease,

That, laden with my sinnes, I seeke for ease?

O, be thou witnesse, that the reynes dost know,

And hearts of all, if I be sad for show,

And iudge me after: if I dare pretend

To ought but grace, or ayme at other end.

As thou art all, so be thou all to mee,

First, midst, and last, conuerted one, and three;

My faith, my hope, my loue: and in this state,

My iudge, my witnesse, and my aduocate.

Where haue I beene this while exil'd from thee?

And whither rap'd, now thou but stoup'st to mee?

Dwell, dwell here still: O, being euery-where,

How can I doubt to finde thee euer here?

I know my state, both full of shame, and scorne,

Conceiu'd in sinne, and vnto labour borne,

Standing with feare, and must with horror fall,

And destin'd vnto iudgement, after all.

I feele my griefes too, and there scarce is ground,

Vpon my flesh t'inflict another wound.

Yet dare I not complaine, or wish for death

With holy PAVL, lest it be thought the breath

Of discontent; or that these prayers bee

For wearinesse of life, not loue of thee.