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| LII. |
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| Who ere thou beest that read'st this sullen Writ, |
| Which just so much courts thee, as thou dost it, |
| Let me arrest thy thoughts, wonder with me, |
| Why plowing, building, ruling and the rest, |
| Or most of those arts, whence our lives are blest, |
| By cursed Caines race invented be, |
| And blest Seth vext us with Astronomy. |
| There's nothing simply good, nor ill alone, |
| Of every qualitie Comparison, |
| The onely measure is, and judge, Opinion. |
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| HOLY SONNETS. |
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| La Corona. |
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| 1. Deigne at my hands this crowne of prayer and praise, |
| Weav'd in my lone devout melancholy, |
| Thou which of good, hast, yea art treasurie, |
| All changing unchang'd Ancient of dayes, |
| But doe not with a vile crowne of fraile bayes, |
| Reward my muses white sinceritie,
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[CW: But] |