|
| But 'tis an incongruitie to smile, |
| Therefore I end; and bid farewel a while |
| At Court, though from Court, were the better stile. |
|
| To the Countess of Bedford. |
|
| Madam, |
| Reason is our Souls left hand, Faith her right, |
| By these we reach divinity, that's you; |
| Their loves who have the blessing of your light, |
| Grew from their reason, mine from fair faith grew. |
|
| But as although a squint left-handedness |
| Be'ungratious, yet we cannot want that hand: |
| So would I, (not to encrease, but to express |
| My faith) as I believe, so understand. |
|
| Therefore I study you first in your Saints, |
| Those friends whom your election glorifies; |
| Then in your deeds, accesses and restraints, |
| And what you read, and what your self devise. |
|
| But soon, the reasons why you'are lov'd by all, |
| Grow infinite, and so pass reasons reach, |
| Then back again to implicite faith I fall, |
| And rest on what the Catholique voice doth teach; |
|
| That you are good: and not one Heretique |
| Denies it; if he did, yet you are so. |
| For rocks which high do seem, deep-rooted stick, |
| Waves wash, not undermine, nor overthrow. |
|
| In every thing there naturally grows |
| A Balsamum to keep it fresh and new,
|
[CW: If] |