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| To the Countesse of Bedford. |
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| T'have written then, when you writ, seem'd to me |
| Worst of spirituall vices, Simony: |
| And not t'have written then, seemes little lesse |
| Than worst of civill vices, thanklesnesse. |
| In this, my doubt I seem'd loath to confesse, |
| In that,* I seem'd to shunne beholdingnesse. |
| But 'tis not so, nothings, 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, than 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 hath Dian's Fane. |
| So whether my hymns you admit or chuse, |
| In me you'have hallowed a Pagan Muse, |
| And denizend a stranger, who mis-taught |
| By blamers of the times they mard, hath sought |
| Vertues in corners, which now bravely doe |
| Shine in the worlds best part, or all It; You. |
| I have beene told, that vertue'in Courtiers hearts |
| Suffers an Ostracisme, and departs. |
| Profit, ease, fitnesse, plenty, bid it goe, |
| But whither, onely knowing you, I know; |
| Your, or you vertue, two vast uses serves. |
| It ransomes one sexe, and one Court preserves;
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[CW: There's] |