|
To Sr Henry Wootton. |
|
Here's no more newes, then vertue, 'I may as well |
Tell you Calis, or St Michaels tale for newes, as tell |
That vice doth here habitually dwell. |
|
Yet, as to'get stomachs, we walke up and downe, |
And toyle to sweeten rest, so, may God frowne, |
If, but to loth both, I haunt Court, or Towne. |
|
For here no one is from the'extremitie |
Of vice, by any other reason free, |
But that the next to'him, still, is worse then hee. |
|
In this worlds warfare, they whom rugged Fate, |
(Gods Commissary,) doth so throughly hate, |
As in'the Courts Squadron to marshall their state |
|
If they stand arm'd with seely honesty, |
With wishing prayers, and neat integritie, |
Like Indians 'gainst Spanish hosts they bee. |
|
Suspitious boldnesse to this place belongs, |
And to'have as many eares as all have tongues; |
Tender to know, tough to acknowledge wrongs.
|
[CW: Beleeve] |