Poems, Poem 12 – Poem 23
To the Counteſſe of Bedford.
T'Have written then, when you writ, ſeem'd to mee
Worſt of ſpirituall vices, Simony,
And not t'have written then, ſeemes little leſſe
Then worſt of civill vices, thankleſſeneſſe.
In this, my doubt I ſeem'd loath to confeſſe,
In that, I ſeem'd to ſhunne beholdingneſſe.
But 'tis not ſoe, nothing, as I am, may,
Pay all they have, and yet have all to pay.
Such borrow in their payments, and owe more
By having leave to write ſo, then before.
Yet ſince rich mines in barren grounds are ſhowne,
May not I yeeld (not gold) but coale or ſtone?
Temples were not demoliſh'd, though prophane:
Here Peter Ioves, there Paul have Dian's Fane.
So whether my hymnes you admit or chuſe,
In me you'have hallowed a Pagan Muſe,
And denizend a ſtranger, who miſtaught
By blamers of the times they mard, hath ſought
Vertues in corners, which now bravely doe
Shine in the worlds beſt part, or all, in you.
I have beene told, that vertue'in Courtiers hearts
Suffers an Oſtraciſme, and departs.
Profit, eaſe, fitneſſe, plenty, bid it goe,
But whither, only knowing you, I know;
Your, or you vertue, two vaſt uſes ſerves,
It ranſomes one ſex, and one Court preſerves;
There's nothing but your worth, which being true,
Is knowne to any other, not to you.
And you can never know it; To admit
No knowledge of your worth, it ſome of it.
But ſince to you, your praiſes diſcords bee,
Stop others ills, to meditate with mee.
Oh! to confeſſe wee know not what we ſould,
Is halfe excuſe, wee know not what we would.
Lightneſſe depreſſeth us, emptineſſe fills,
We ſweat and faint, yet ſtill goe downe the hills;
As new Philoſophy arreſts the Sunne,
And bids the paſſive earth about it runne,
So wee have dull'd our minde, it hath no ends;
OnelyOnly the bodie's buſie, and pretends;
As dead low earth ecclipſes and controules
The quick high Moone: ſo doth the body, Soules.
In none but us, are ſuch mixt engines found,
As hands of double office: For, the ground
We till with them; and them to heav'n wee raiſe;
Who prayer-leſſe labours, or, without this, prayes,
Doth but one halfe, that's none; He which ſaid, Plough
And looke not back, to looke up doth allow.
Good ſced degenerates, and oft obeyes
The ſoyles diſeaſe, and into cockle ſtrayes.
Let the minds thoughts be but tranſplanted ſo,
Into the body, 'and baſtardly they grow.
What hate could hurt our bodies like our love?
Wee but no forraigne tyrans could remove,
Theſe not ingrav'd, but inborne dignities
Caskets of ſoules; Temples, and Palaces:
For, bodies ſhall from death redeemed bee,
Soules but preſerv'd, not naturally free;
As men to'our priſons, new ſoules to us are ſent,
Which learne it there, and come in innocent.
Firſt ſeeds of every creature are in us,
What ere the world hath bad, or pretious,
Mans body can produce, hence hath it beene
That ſtones, wormes, frogges, and ſnakes in man are ſeene:
But who ere ſaw, though nature can worke ſoe,
That, pearle, or gold, or corne in man did grow.
We'have added to the world Virginia, 'and ſent
Two new ſtarres lately to the firmament;
Why grudge wee us (not heaven) the dignity
T'increaſe with ours, thoſe faire ſoules company.
But I muſt end this letter, though it doe
Stand on two truths, neither is true to you.
Vertue hath ſome perverſeneſſe; For ſhe will
Neither beleeve her good, nor others ill,
Even in your vertues beſt paradiſe,
Vertue hath ſome, but wiſe degrees of vice.
Too many vertues, or too much of one
Begets in you unjuſt ſuſpition.
And ignorance of vice, makes vertue leſſe,
Quenching compaſſion of our wrechedneſſe.
But theſe are riddles; Some aſperſion
Of vice becomes well ſome complexion.
Stateſmen purge vice with vice, and may corrode
The bad with bad, a ſpider with a toad:
For ſo, ill thralls not them, but they tame ill
And make her do much good againſt her will,
But in your Commonwealth or world in you
Vice hath no office, or good worke to doe.
Take then no vitious purge, but be content
With cordiall vertue, your knowne nouriſhment.
To the Counteſſe of Bedford.
On New-yeares day.
THis twilight of two yeares, not paſt nor next,
Some embleme is of mee, or I of this,
Who Meteor-like, of ſtuffe and forme perplext,
Whoſe what, and where, in diſputation is,
If I ſhould call mee any thing, ſhould miſſe.
I ſumme the yeares, and mee, and finde mee not
Debtor to th'old, nor Creditor to th'new,
That cannot ſay, My thankes I have forgot,
Nor truſt I this with hopes, and yet ſcarce true,
This bravery is ſince theſe time ſhew'd mee you.
In recompence I would ſhow future times
What you were, and teach them to'urge towards ſuch,
Verſe embalmes vertue; 'and Tombs, or Thrones of rimes,
Preſerve fraile tranſitory fame, as much
As ſpice doth bodies from corrupt aires touch.
Mine are ſhort liv'd; the tincture of your name
Creates in them, but diſſipates as faſt,
New ſpirit: for, ſtrong agents with the ſame
Force that doth warme and cheriſh, us doe waſt;
Kept hot with ſtrong extracts, no bodies laſt:
So, my verſe built of your juſt praiſe, might want
Reaſon and likelihood, the firmeſt Baſe,
And made of miracle, now faith is ſcant,
Will vaniſh ſoone, and ſo poſſeſſe no place,
And you, and it, too much grace might diſgrace.
When all (as truth commands aſſent) confeſſe
All truth of you, yet they will doubt how I
One corne of one low anthills duſt, and leſſe,
Should name know or expreſſe a thing ſo high,
And not an inch, meaſure infinity.
I cannot tell them, nor my ſelfe, nor you,
But leave, leſt truth b'endanger'd by my praiſe,
And turne to God, who knowes I thinke this true,
And uſeth oft, when ſuch a heart miſ-ſayes,
To make it good, for, ſuch a prayer prayes.
Hee will beſt teach you, how you ſhould lay out
His ſtock of beauty, learning, favour, blood,
He will perplex ſecurity with doubt,
And cleare thoſe doubts, hide from you, 'and ſhew you good,
And ſo increaſe your appetite and food;
Hee will teach you, that good and bad have not
One latitude in cloyſters, and in Court,
Indifferent there the greateſt ſpace hath got,
Some pitty'is not good there, ſome vaine diſport,
On this ſide, ſinne; with that place may comport.
Yet he as hee bounds ſeas, will fixe your houres,
With pleaſure, and delight may not ingreſſe,
And though what none elſe loſt, be trulieſt yours,
Hee will make you, what you did not, poſſeſſe,
By uſing others, not vice, but weakeneſſe.
He will make you ſpeake truths, and credibly,
And make you doubt, that others doe not ſo:
Hee will provide you keyes, and locks, to ſpie,
And ſcape ſpies, to good ends, and hee will ſhow
What you may not acknowledge, what not know.
For your owne conſcience, he gives innocence,
But for your fame, a diſcreet warineſſe,
And though to ſcape, then to revenge offence
Be better, he ſhowes both, and to repreſſe
Ioy, when your ſtate ſwells, ſadneſſe when 'tis leſſe.
From need of teares he will defend your ſoule,
Or make a rebaptizing of one teare;
Hee cannot, (that's, he will not) diſ-inroule
Your name; and when with active joy we heare
This private Ghoſpell, then 'tis our new yeare,
To the Counteſſe of Huntingdon.
MADAME,
MAn to Gods image, Eve, to mans was made,
Nor finde wee that God breath'd a ſoule in her,
Canons will not Church functions you invade,
Nor lawes to civill office you preferre.
Who vagrant tranſitory Comets ſees,
Wonders, becauſe they'are rare; But a new ſtarre
Whoſe motion with the firmament agrees,
Is miracle; for, there no new things are;
In woman ſo perchance milde innocence
A ſeldome comet is, but active good
A miracle, which reaſon ſcapes, and ſenſe;
For, Art and Nature this in them withſtood.
As ſuch a ſtarre, which Magi led to view
The manger-cradled infant, God below.
By vertues beames by fame deriv'd from you,
May apt ſoules, and the worſt may vertue know.
If the worlds age, and death be argued well
By the Sunnes fall, which now towards earth doth bend,
Then we might feare that vertue, ſince ſhe fell
So low as woman, ſhould be neare her end.
But ſhe's not ſtoop'd, but rais'd; exil'd by men,
She fled to heaven, that's heavenly things that's you,
She was in all men, thinly ſcatter'd then,
But now amaſs'd, contracted in a few.
She guilded us: But you are gold, and Shee,
Us ſhe inform'd, but tranſubſtantiates you,
Soft diſpoſitions which ductile bee,
Elixarlike, ſhe makes not cleane, but new.
Though you a wifes and mothers name retaine,
'Tis not as woman, for all are not ſoe,
But vertue having made you vertue, 'is faine
T'adhere in theſe names, her and you to ſhow,
Elſe, being alike pure, wee ſhould neither ſee,
As, water being into ayre rarify'd,
Neither appeare, till in one cloud they bee,
So, for our ſakes you do low names abide;
Taught by great conſtellations, which being fram'd,
Of the moſt ſtarres, take low names, Crab, and Bull,
When ſingle planets by the Gods are nam'd,
You covet not great names, of great things full.
So you, as woman, one doth comprehend,
And in the vaile of kindred others ſee;
To ſome ye are reveal'd, as in a friend,
And as a vertuous Prince farre off, to mee.
To whom, becauſe from you all vertues flow,
And 'tis not none, to dare contemplate you,
I, which to you as your true ſubject owe
Some tribute for that, ſo theſe lines are due,
If you can thinke theſe flatteries, they are,
For then your judgement is below my praiſe,
If they were ſo, oft, flatteries worke as farre,
As Counſels, and as farre th'endeavour raiſe.
So my ill reaching you might there grow good,
But I remaine a poyſon'd fountaine ſtill;
But not your beauty, vertue, knowledge, blood
Are more above all flattery, then my will.
And if I flatter any, 'tis not you
But my owne judgement, who did long agoe
Pronounce, that all theſe praiſes ſhould be true,
And vertue ſhould your beauty, 'and birth outgrow.
Now that my propheſies are all fulfill'd,
Rather then God ſhould not be honour'd too,
And all theſe gifts confeſs'd, which hee inſtill'd,
Your ſelfe were bound to ſay that which I doe.
So I, but your Recorder am in this,
Or mouth, or Speaker of the univerſe,
A miniſteriall notary, for 'tis
Not I, but you and fame, that make this verſe;
I was your Prophet in your yonger dayes,
And now your Chaplaine, God in you to praiſe.
To M. I. W.
ALl haile ſweet Poët, more full of more ſtrong fire,
Then hath or ſhall enkindle any ſpirit,
I lov'd what nature gave thee, but this merit
Of wit and Art I love not but admire;
Who have before or ſhall write after thee,
Their workes, though toughly laboured, will bee
Like infancie or age to mans firme ſtay,
Or earely and late twilights to mid-day.
Men ſay, and truly, that they better be
Which be envyed then pittied: therefore I,
Becauſe I wiſh thee beſt, doe thee envie:
O wouldſt thou, by like reaſon, pitty mee,
But care not for mee, I, that ever was
In Natures, and in fortunes gifts, (alas,
Before thy grace got in the Muſes Schoole)
A monſter and a begger, am a foole.
Oh how I grieve, that late borne modeſty
Hath got ſuch root in eaſie waxen hearts,
That men may not themſelves, their owne good parts
Extoll, without ſuſpect of ſurquedrie,
For, but thy ſelfe, no ſubject can be found
Worthy thy quill, nor any quill reſound
Thy worke but thine: how good it were to ſee
A Poëm in thy praiſe, and writ by thee.
Now if this ſong be too'harſh for rime, yet, as
The Painters bad god made a good devill,
'Twill be good proſe, although the verſe be evill.
If thou forget the rime as thou doſt paſſe,
Then write, then I may follow, and ſo bee
Thy debter, thy'eccho, thy foyle, thy zanee.
I ſhall be thought, if mine like thine I ſhape,
All the worlds Lyon, though I be thy Ape.
To M. T. W.
HAſt thee harſh verſe as faſt as thy lame meaſure
Will give thee leave, to him; My pain, & pleaſure
I have given thee, and yet thou art too weake,
Feete and a reaſoning ſoule and tongue to ſpeake.
Tell him, all queſtions, which men have defended
Both of the place and paines of hell, are ended;
And 'tis decreed our hell is but privation
Of him, at leaſt in this earths habitation:
And 'tis where I am, where in every ſtreet
Infections follow, overtake, and meete:
Live I or die, by you my love is ſent,
And you'are my pawnes, or elſe my Teſtament.
To M. T. W.
PRegnant again with th'old twins Hope, and Feare,
Oft have I askt for thee, both how and where
Thou wert, and what my hopes of letters were;
As in our ſtreets ſly beggers narrowly
Watch motions of the givers hand or eye,
And evermore conceive ſome hope thereby.
And now thy Almes is given, thy letter'is read,
The body riſen againe, the which was dead,
And thy poore ſtarveling bountifully fed.
After this banquet my Soule doth ſay grace,
And praiſe thee for'it, and zealouſly imbrace
Thy love, though I thinke thy love in this caſe
To be as gluttons, which ſay 'midſt their meat,
They love that beſt of which they moſt do eat.
At once, from hence, my lines and I depart,
I to my ſoft ſtill walks, they to my Heart;
I to the Nurſe, they to the child of Art;
Yet as a firme houſe, though the Carpenter
Periſh, doth ſtand: as an Embaſſadour
Lyes ſafe, how e'r his king be in danger:
So, though I languiſh, preſt with Malancholy,
My verſe, the ſtrict Map of my miſery,
Shall live to ſee that, for whoſe want I dye.
Therefore I envie them, and doe repent,
That from unhappy mee, things happy'are ſent;
Yet as a Picture, or bare Sacrament,
Accept theſe lines, and if in them there be
Merit of love beſtow that love on mee.
To M. C. B.
THy friend, whom thy deſerts to thee enchaine,
Urg'd by this unexcuſable occaſion,
Thee and the Saint of his affection
Leaving behinde, doth of both wants complaine;
And let the love I beare to both ſuſtaine
No blott nor maime by this diviſion,
Strong is this love which ties our hearts in one,
And ſtrong that love purſu'd with amorous paine▪
But though beſides thy ſelfe I leave behind
Heavens liberall and earths thrice-faire Sunne,
Going to where ſterne winter aye doth wonne,
Yet, loves hot fires, which martyr my ſad minde,
Doe ſend forth ſcalding ſighes, which have the Art
To melt all Ice, but that which walls her heart.
To M. S. B.
O Thou which to ſearch out the ſecret parts
Of the India, or rather Paradiſe
Of knowledge, haſt with courage and adviſe
Lately launch'd into the vaſt Sea of Arts,
Diſdaine not in thy conſtant travailing
To doe as other Voyagers, and make
Some turnes into leſſe Creekes, and wiſely take
Freſh water at the Heliconian ſpring;
I ſing not, Siren like, to tempt; for I
Am harſh, nor as thoſe Sciſmatiques with you,
Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew;
But ſeing in you bright ſparkes of Poetry,
I, though I brought no fuell, had deſire
With theſe Articulate blaſts to blow the fire.
To M. B. B.
IS not thy ſacred hunger of ſcience
Yet ſatisfy'd? Is not thy braines rich hive
Fulfil'd with hony which thou doſt derive
From the Arts ſpirits and their Quinteſſence?
Then weane thy ſelfe at laſt, and thee withdraw
From Cambridge thy old nurſe, and, as the reſt,
Here toughly chew, and ſturdily digeſt
Th' immenſe vaſt volumes of our common law;
And begin ſoone, leſt my griefe grieve thee too,
Which is, that that which I ſhould have begun
In my youthes morning, now late muſt be done;
And I, as Giddy Travellers, muſt doe,
Which ſtray or ſleepe all day, and having loſt
Light and ſtrength, darke and tir'd muſt then ride poſt.
If thou unto thy Muſe be marryed,
Embrace her ever, ever multiply,
Be far from me that ſtrange Adulterie
To tempt thee and procure her widdowhood,
My nurſe, (for I had one,) becauſe I'am cold,
Divorc'd her ſelfe, the cauſe being in me,
That I can take no new in Bigamye,
Not my will only but power doth withhold.
Hence comes it, that theſe Rymes which never had
Mother, want matter, aud they only have
A little forme, the which their Father gave;
They are prophane, imperfect, oh, too bad
To be counted Children of Poetry
Except confirm'd and Biſhoped by thee.
To M. R. W.
IF, as mine is, thy life a ſlumber be,
Seeme, when thou read'ſt theſe lines, to dreame of me,
Never did Morpheus nor his brother weare
Shapes ſoe like thoſe Shapes, whom they would appeare,
As this my letter is like me, for it
Hath my name, words, hand, feet, heart, minde and wit;
It is my deed of gift of mee to thee,
It is my Will, my ſelfe the Legacie.
So thy retyrings I love, yea envie,
Bred in thee by a wiſe melancholy,
That I rejoyce, that unto where thou art,
Though I ſtay here, I can thus ſend my heart,
As kindly'as any enamored Patient
His Picture to his abſent Love hath ſent.
All newes I thinke ſooner reach thee then mee;
Havens are Heavens, and Ships wing'd Angels be,
The which both Goſpell, and ſterne threatnings bring;
Guyanaes harveſt is nip'd in the ſpring,
I feare; And with us (me thinkes)▪ Fate deales ſo
As with the Jewes guide God did; he did ſhow
Him the rich land, but bar'd his entry in,
Our ſlownes is our puniſhment and ſinne;
Perchance, theſe Spaniſh buſineſſe being done,
Which as the Earth betweene the Moone and Sun
Eclipſe the light which Guyana would give,
Our diſcontinued hopes we ſhall retrive:
But if (as All th' All muſt) hopes ſmoake away,
Is not Almightie Vertue'an India?
If men be worlds, there is in every one
Some thing to anſwere in ſome proportion
All the worlds riches: And in good men, this
Vertue, our formes forme and our ſoules ſoule is.
To M. I. L.
OF that ſhort Roll of friends writ in my heart
Which with thy name begins, ſince their depart,
Whether in the Engliſh Provinces they be,
Or drinke of Po, Sequan, or Danubie,
There's none that ſometimes greets us not, and yet
Your Trent is Lethe', that paſt, us you forget,
You doe not duties of Societies,
If from the'embrace of a lov'd wife you riſe,
View your fat Beaſts, ſtretch'd Barnes, and labour'd fields,
Eate, play, ryde, take all joyes which all day yeelds,
And then againe to your embracements goe:
Some houres on us your frends, and ſome beſtow
Upon your Muſe, elſe both wee ſhall repent,
I that my love, ſhe that her guifts on you are ſpent
To M. I. P.
BLeſt are your North parts, for all this long time
My Sun is with you, cold and darke'is our Clime▪
Heavens Sun, which ſtaid ſo long from us this yeare,
Staid in your North (I thinke) for ſhe was there,
And hether by kinde nature drawne from thence,
Here rages chafes and threatens peſtilence;
Yet I, as long as ſhee from hence doth ſtaie,
Thinke this no South, no Sommer, nor no day.
With thee my kinde and unkinde heart is run,
There ſacrifice it to that beauteous Sun:
So may thy paſtures with their flowery feaſts,
As ſuddenly as Lard, fat thy leane beaſts;
So may thy woods oft poll'd, yet ever weare
A greene, and when thee liſt a golden haire;
So may all thy ſheepe bring forth Twins; and ſo
In chace and race may thy horſe all out goe;
So may thy love and courage ne'r be cold;
Thy Sonne ne'r Ward; Thy lov'd wife ne'r ſeem old▪
But maiſt thou wiſh great things, and them attaine,
As thou telſt her and none but her my paine.
To E. of D. with ſix holy Sonnets.
SEE Sir, how as the Suns hot Maſculine flame
Begets ſtrange creatures on Niles durty ſlime,
In me, your fatherly yet luſty Ryme
(For, theſe ſongs are their fruits) have wrought the ſame;
But though the ingendring force from whence they came
Bee ſtrong enough, and nature doe admit
Seaven to be borne at once, I ſend as yet
But ſix, they ſay, the ſeaventh hath ſtill ſome maime;
I chooſe your judgement, which the ſame degree
Doth with her ſiſter, your invention, hold,
As fire theſe droſſie Rymes to purifie,
Or as Elixar, to change them to gold;
You are that Alchimiſt which alwaies had
Wit, whoſe one ſpark could make good things of bad.
To Sir H. W. at his going Ambaſſador to Venice.
AFter thoſe reverend papers, whoſe ſoule is
Our good and great Kings lov'd hand and fear'd name▪
By which to you he derives much of his,
And (how he may) makes you almoſt the ſame,
A Taper of his Torch, a copie writ
From his Originall, and a faire beame
Of the ſame warme, and dazeling Sun, though it
Muſt in another Sphere his vertue ſtreame:
After thoſe learned papers which your hand
Hath ſtor'd with notes of uſe and pleaſures too,
From which rich treaſury you may command
Fit matter whether you will write or doe:
After thoſe loving papers, where friends ſend
With glad griefe, to your Sea-ward ſteps, farewel,
Which thicken on you now, as prayers aſcend
To heaven in troupes at'a good mans paſſing bell:
Admit this honeſt paper, and allow
It ſuch an audience as your ſelfe would aske;
What you muſt ſay at Venice this meanes now,
And hath for nature, what you have for taske.
To ſweare much love, not to be chang'd before
Honour alone will to your fortune fit;
Nor ſhall I then honour your fortune, more
Then I have done your honour wanting it.
But'tis an eaſier load (though both oppreſſe)
To want, then governe greatneſſe, for wee are
In that, our owne and onelyonly buſineſſe,
In this, wee muſt for others vices care;
'Tis therefore well your ſpirits now are plac'd
In their laſt Furnace, in activity;
Which fits them (Schooles and Courts and warres o'rpaſt
To touch and teſt in any beſt degree.
For mee, (if there be ſuch a thing as I)
Fortune (if there be ſuch a thing as ſhee)
Spies that I beare ſo well her tyranny,
That ſhe thinks nothing elſe ſo fit for mee;
But though ſhe part us, to heare my oft prayers
For your increaſe, God is as neere mee here;
And to ſend you what I ſhall begge, his ſtaires
In length and eaſe are alike every where.
To M. M. H.
MAd paper ſtay, and grudge not here to burne
With all thoſe ſonnes whom my braine did create,
At leſt lye hid with mee, till thou returne.
To rags againe, which is thy native ſtate.
What though thou have enough unworthineſſe
To come unto great place as others doe,
That's much, emboldens, pulls, thruſts I confeſſe,
But 'tis not all, thou ſhould'ſt be wicked too.
And, that thou canſt not learne, or not of mee;
Yet thou wilt goe, Goe, ſince thou goeſt to her
Who lacks but faults to be a Prince, for ſhee,
Truth, whom they dare not pardon, dares preferre.
But when thou com'ſt to that perplexing eye
Which equally claimes love and reverence.
Thou wilt not long diſpute it, thou wilt die;
And, having little now, have then no ſenſe.
Yet when her warme redeeming hand, which is
A miracle; and made ſuch to worke more,
Doth touch thee (ſaples leafe) thou grow'ſt by this
Her creature; glorify'd more then before.
Then as a mother which delights to heare
Her early child miſpeake halfe uttered words,
Or, becauſe majeſty doth never feare
Ill or bold ſpeech, ſhe Audience affords.
And then, cold ſpeechleſſe wretch, thou dieſt againe,
And wiſely; what diſcourſe is left for thee?
For, ſpeech of ill, and her thou muſt abſtaine,
And is there any good which is not ſhee?
Yet maiſt thou praiſe her ſervants, though not her,
And wit, and vertue, 'and honour her attend,
And ſince they'are but her cloathes, thou ſhalt not erre
If thou her ſhape and beauty'and grace commend.
Who knowes thy deſtiny? when thou haſt done,
Perchance her Cabinet may harbour thee,
Whither all noble ambitious wits doe runne,
A neſt almoſt as full of Good as ſhee.
When thou art there, if any, whom wee know,
Were ſav'd before, and did that heaven partake,
When ſhe revolves his papers, marke what ſhow
Of favour, ſhe alone, to them doth make.
Marke, if to get them, ſhe o'r skip the reſt,
Marke, if ſhee read them twice, or kiſſe the name;
Marke, if ſhe doe the ſame that they proteſt,
Marke, if ſhe marke whether her woman came.
Marke, if ſlight things be'objected, and o'r blowne,
Marke, if her oathes againſt him be not ſtill
Reſerv'd, and that ſhee grieves ſhe's not her owne,
And chides the doctrine that denies Freewill.
Ibid thee not doe this to be my ſpie;
Nor to make my ſelfe her familiar;
But ſo much I doe love her choyce, that I
Would faine love him that ſhall be lov'd of her.