Poems, Poem 24 – Poem 26
To the Counteſſe of Bedford.
HOnour is ſo ſublime perfection,
And ſo refinde; that when God was alone
And creatureleſſe at firſt, himſelfe had none;
But as of the elements, theſe which wee tread,
Produce all things with which wee'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, not beſtow.
For when from herbs the pure part muſt be wonne
From groſſe, by Stilling, this is better done
By deſpiſ'd dung, then by the fire or Sunne.
Care not then, Madame, 'how low your prayſes lye;
In labourers balads oft more piety
God findes, then in Te Deums melodie.
And, ordinance rais'd on Towers ſo many mile
Send not their voice, 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.
You, for whoſe body God made better clay,
Or tooke Soules ſtuffe ſuch as ſhall late decay,
Or ſuch as needs ſmall change at the laſt day.
This, as an Amber drop enwraps a Bee,
Covering diſcovers your quicke Soule; that we
May in your through-ſhine front our hearts thoughts ſee.
You teach (though wee learne not) a thing unknowne
To our late times, the uſe of ſpecular ſtone,
Through which all things within without were ſhown.
Of ſuch were Temples; ſo and ſuch you are;
Beeing and ſeeming is your equall care,
And vertues whole ſumme is but know and dare.
But as our Soules of growth and Soules of ſenſe
Have birthright of our reaſons Soule, yet hence
They fly not from that, nor ſeeke preſidence.
Natures firſt leſſon, ſo, diſcretion,
Muſt not grudge zeale a place, nor yet keepe none,
Not baniſh it ſelfe, nor religion.
Diſcretion is a wiſemans Soule, and ſo
Religion is a Chriſtians, and you know
How theſe are one, her yea, is not her no.
Nor may we hope to ſodder ſtill and knit
Theſe two, and dare to breake them; nor muſt wit
Be colleague to religion, but be it.
In thoſe poore types of God (round circles) ſo
Religions tipes, the peecleſſe centers flow,
And are in all the lines which alwayes goe.
If either ever wrought in you alone
Or principally, then religion
Wrought your ends, and your wayes diſcretion.
Goe thither ſtil, goe the ſame way you went,
Who ſo would change, do covet or repent;
Neither can reach you, great and innocent.
To the Counteſſe of Bedford.
Begun in France but never perfected.
THough I be dead, and buried, yet I have
(Living in you,) Court enough in my grave,
As oft as there I thinke my ſelfe to bee,
So many reſurrections waken mee.
That thankfullneſſe your favours have forgot
In mee, embalmes mee; that I doe not rot;
This ſeaſon as'tis Eaſter, as'tis ſpring,
Muſt both to growth and to confeſſion bring
My thoughts diſpos'd unto your influence, ſo,
Theſe verſes bud, ſo theſe confeſſions grow;
Firſt I confeſſe I have to others lent
Your ſtock, and over prodigally ſpent
Your treaſure, for ſince I had never knowne
Vertue or beautie, but as they are growne
In you, I ſhould not thinke or ſay they ſhine,
(So as I have) in any other Mine;
Next I confeſſe this my confeſſion,
For, 'tis ſome fault thus much to touch upon,
Your praiſe to you, where half rights ſeeme too much,
And make your minds ſincere complexion bluſh.
Next I confeſſe my'impenitence, for I
Can ſcarce repent my firſt fault, ſince thereby
Remote low Spirits, which ſhall ne'r read you,
May in leſſe leſſons finde enough to doe,
By ſtudying copies, not Originals,
Deſunt caetera.
A Letter to the Lady Carey, and Mrs Eſſex Riche, From Amyens.
MADAME,
HEre where by All All Saints invoked are,
'Twere too much ſchiſme to be ſingular,
And 'gainſt a practiſe generall to warre.
Yet turning to Saincts, ſhould my'humility
To other Sainct then you directed bee,
That were to make my ſchiſme, hereſie.
Nor would I be a Convertite ſo cold,
As not to tell it; If this be too bold,
Pardons are in this market cheaply ſold.
Where, becauſe Faith is in too low degree,
I thought it ſome Apoſtleſhip in mee
To ſpeake things which by faith alone I ſee.
That is, of you, who is a firmament
Of virtues, where no one is growne, or ſpent,
They'are your materials, not your ornament.
Others whom wee call vertuous, are not ſo
In their whole ſubſtance, but, their vertues grow
But in their humours, and at ſeaſons ſhow.
For when through taſtleſſe flat humilitie
In dow bak'd men ſome harmeleſſenes we ſee,
'Tis but his flegme that's Vertuous, and not Hee:
Soe is the Blood ſometimes; who ever ran
To danger unimportun'd, he was than
No better then a ſanguine Vertuous man.
So cloyſterall men, who, in pretence of feare
All contributions to this life forbeare,
Have Vertue in Melancholy, and only there.
Spirituall Cholerique Crytiques, which in all
Religions find faults, and forgive no fall,
Have, through their zeale, Vertue but in their Gall.
We are thus but parcel guilt; to Gold we'are growne
When Vertue is our Soules complexion;
Who knowes his Vertues name or place, hath none.
Vertue'is but aguiſh, when 'tis ſeverall,
By occaſion wak'd, and circumſtantiall.
True vertue is Soule, Alwaies in all deeds All.
This Vertue thinking to give dignitie
To your ſoule, found there no infirmitie,
For, your ſoule was as good Vertue, as ſhee;
Shee therefore wrought upon that part of you
Which is ſcarce leſſe then ſoule, as ſhe could do,
And ſo hath made your beauty, Vertue too.
Hence comes it, that your Beauty wounds not hearts,
As Others, with prophane and ſenſuall Darts,
But as an influence, vertuous thoughts imparts.
But if ſuch friends by the honor of your ſight
Grow capable of this ſo great a light,
As to partake your vertues, and their might,
What muſt I thinke that influence muſt doe,
Where it findes ſympathie and matter too,
Vertue, and beauty of the ſame ſtuffe, as you?
Which is, your noble worthie ſiſter, ſhee
Of whom, if what in this my Extaſie
And revelation of you both I ſee,
I ſhould write here, as in ſhort Galleries
The Maſter at the end large glaſſes ties,
So to preſent the roome twice to our eyes,
So I ſhould give this letter length, and ſay
That which I ſaid of you; there is no way
From either, but by the other not to ſtray.
May therefore this be enough to teſtifie
My true devotion, free from flattery;
He that beleeves himſelfe, doth never lie.