|
| However keep the lively taste you hold |
| Of God, love him now, but fear him more, |
| And in your afternoons think what you told |
| And promis'd him at morning prayer before. |
|
| Let falshood like a discord anger you, |
| Else be not froward. But why do I touch |
| Things, of which none is in your practice new, |
| And Fables and fruit-trenchers teach as much. |
|
| But thus I make you keep your promise Sir, |
| Riding I had you, though you still staid there, |
| And in these thoughts, although you never stir, |
| Yon* came with me to Micham, and are here. |
|
| To Mr. Rowland Woodward. |
|
| Like one who in her third widowhood doth profess |
| Her self a Nun, tyed to retiredness, |
| So'affects my Muse, now, a chast fallowness. |
|
| Since she to few, yet to too many'hath shown, |
| How Love-songweeds, and Satyrique thorns are grown |
| Where seeds of better Arts, were early sown? |
|
| Though to use, and love Poetry, to me, |
| Betroth'd to no'one Art, be no Adultery; |
| Omissions of good, ill, as ill deeds be. |
|
| For though to us it seem but light and thin, |
| Yet in those faithful scales, where God throws in |
| Mens works, vanity weighs as much as sin.
|
[CW: If] |