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| A l̄re to Rowland Woodward |
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| Like one who in her third widdowhood doth professe [199] |
| Her Selfe a Nun ty'd to retyrednesse |
| So affects my Muse now a chast holynesse.* |
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| Since shee to few yet to too many hath flowne* |
| How long loves weedes and Satirique* thornes ar growne |
| Where seedes of better Arts were early sowne? |
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| Though to vse and loue Poetry, to mee |
| Betrothd to no one Art bee no Adultery |
| Omissions of good, as, ill, as ill deedes, bee |
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| ffor though to vs it seeme but light and thinne |
| Yet in those faythfull scales where god throwes in |
| Mens workes, Vanity weighs as much as Sinne. |
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| If our soules haue staynd theyr first whites, yet wee |
| May clothe them with fayth and deare Integrity* |
| Which God imputes as naked* purity. |
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| There is not Vertue but Religion. |
| Wise, valiant, sober, iust, ar names w.ch none |
| Want, wch want not vice-couering discretion. |
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| Seeke wee then our selues in our Selues, for as |
| Men force the Sunne with much more force to passe |
| By gathering his beames with a Christall glasse |
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| So wee, (if wee into our Selues will turne) |
| Blowing our sparkes of Vertue) may outburne |
| The straw w.ch doth about our harts soiourne
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[CW: you know__] |