|
| Beleeve mee Sir, in my youths giddiest dayes, |
| When to be like the Court, was a playes praise, |
| Playes were not so like Courts, as Courts'are like playes. |
|
| Then let us at these mimicke antiques jeast, |
| Whose deepest projects, and egregious gests |
| Are but dull Moralls of a game at Chests. |
|
| But now 'tis incongruity to smile, |
| Therefore I end; and bid farewell a while, |
| At Court, though from Court, were the better stile. |
|
| To the Countesse of Bedford. |
|
Madame,
Reason is our Soules left hand, Faith her right, |
| By these wee reach divinity, that's you; |
| Their loves, who have the blessings of your light, |
| Grew from their reason, mine from faire faith grew. |
|
| But as, although a squint lefthandednesse |
| Be'ungracious, yet we cannot want that hand, |
| So would I, not to encrease, but to expresse |
| My faith, as I beleeve, so understand.
|
[CW: Therefore] |