All which can call

It perfect, proper, pure and natural,

Not taken up o'the doctors, but as well

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

That asks but to be censured by the eyes,

And in those outward forms all fools are wise.

Nor that your beauty wanted not a dower

Do I reflect. Some alderman has power,

Or cozening farmer of the customs, so

To advance his doubtful issue, and o'erflow

A prince's fortune: these are gifts of chance,

And raise not virtue; they may vice enhance.

My mirror is more subtle, clear, refined,

And takes and gives the beauties of the mind;

Though it reject not those of fortune, such

As blood and match. Wherein, how more than much

Are you engaged to your happy fate

For such a lot! that mixed you with a state

Of so great title, birth, but virtue most;

Without which all the rest were sounds, or lost.

'Tis only that can time and chance defeat,

For he that once is good is ever great.

Wherewith, then, madam, can you better pay

This blessing of your stars, than by that way

Of virtue, which you tread? What if alone,

Without companions? 'Tis safe to have none.

In single paths dangers with ease are watched;

Contagion in the press is soonest catched.

This makes, that wisely you decline your life

Far from the maze of custom, error, strife,

And keep an even and unaltered gait,

Not looking by, or back (like those that wait

Times and occasions, to start forth and seem);

Which though the turning world may disesteem,

Because that studies spectacles and shows,

And after varied, as fresh, objects goes,

Giddy with change, and therefore cannot see

Right the right way; yet must your comfort be

Your conscience; and not wonder if none asks

For truth's complexion, where they all wear masks.

Let who will, follow fashions and attires;

Maintain their liegers forth; for foreign wires

Melt down their husbands' land, to pour away

On the close groom and page on New Year's Day

And almost all days after, while they live

(They find it both so witty and safe to give).

Let 'em on powders, oils, and paintings spend

Till that no usurer nor his bawds dare lend

Them or their officers; and no man know

Whether it be a face they wear, or no.

Let 'em waste body and state, and after all,

When their own parasites laugh at their fall,

May they have nothing left, whereof they can

Boast, but how oft they have gone wrong to man,

And call it their brave sin. For such there be

That do sin only for the infamy,

And never think how vice doth every hour

Eat on her clients and some one devour.

You, madam, young have learned to shun these shelves,

Whereon the most of mankind wrack themselves,

And, keeping a just course, have early put

Into your harbour, and all passage shut

'Gainst storms, or pirates, that might charge your peace;

For which you worthy are the glad increase

Of your blessed womb, made fruitful from above,

To pay your lord the pledges of chaste love,

And raise a noble stem, to give the fame

To Clifton's blood that is denied their name.

Grow, grow fair tree, and as thy branches shoot,

Hear what the muses sing about thy root,

By me, their priest (if they can aught divine):

Before the moons have filled their triple trine,

To crown the burthen which you go withal,

It shall a ripe and timely issue fall,

To expect the honours of great Aubigny,

And greater rites, yet writ in mystery,

But which the fates forbid me to reveal.

Only thus much, out of a ravished zeal

Unto your name and goodness of your life,

They speak; since you are truly that rare wife

Other great wives may blush at, when they see

What your tried manners are, what theirs should be.

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

You are depending on his word and will;

Not fashioned for the court, or strangers' eyes,

But to please him, who is the dearer prize

Unto himself, by being dear to you.

This makes, that your affections still be new,

And that your souls conspire, as they were gone

Each into other, and had now made one.

Live that one still; and as long years do pass,

Madam, be bold to use this truest glass,

Wherein your form you still the same shall find,

Because nor it can change, nor such a mind.

 

Ode

To Sir William Sidney, on His Birthday

Now that the hearth is crowned with smiling fire,

And some do drink, and some do dance,

Some ring,

Some sing,

And all do strive to advance

The gladness higher;

Wherefore should I

Stand silent by,

Who not the least

Both love the cause and authors of the feast?

 

Give me my cup, but from the Thespian well,

That I may tell to Sidney what

This day

Doth say,

And he may think on that

Which I do tell;

When all the noise

Of these forced joys

Are fled and gone,

And he with his best genius left alone.

 

This day says, then, the number of glad years

Are justly summed, that make you man;

Your vow

Must now

Strive all right ways it can

To outstrip your peers:

Since he doth lack

Of going back

Little, whose will

Doth urge him to run wrong, or to stand still.

 

Nor can a little of the common store

Of nobles' virtue show in you;

Your blood

So good

And great must seek for new,

And study more;

Not, weary, rest

On what's deceased.

For they that swell

With dust of ancestors, in graves but dwell.

 

'Twill be exacted of your name, whose son,

Whose nephew, whose grandchild you are;

And men

Will then

Say you have followed far,

When well begun;

Which must be now:

They teach you how.

And he that stays

To live until tomorrow hath lost two days.

 

So may you live in honour as in name,

If with this truth you be inspired;

So may

This day

Be more, and long desired;

And with the flame

Of love be bright,

As with the light

Of bonfires. Then

The birthday shines, when logs not burn, but men.

 

To Heaven

Good and great God, can I not think of thee,

But it must straight my melancholy be?

Is it interpreted in me disease

That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease?

Oh, be thou witness, that the reins dost know

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

And judge me after, if I dare pretend

To aught but grace, or aim at other end.

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

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

My faith, my hope, my love; and in this state,

My judge, my witness, and my advocate.

Where have I been this while exiled from thee?

And whither rapt, now thou but stoop'st to me?

Dwell, dwell here still: Oh, being everywhere,

How can I doubt to find thee ever here?

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

Conceived in sin, and unto labour born,

Standing with fear, and must with horror fall,

And destined unto judgement, after all.

I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground

Upon my flesh to inflict another wound.

Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death

With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath

Of discontent; or that these prayers be

For weariness of life, not love of thee.

 

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