Deare Thom: To the Countesse of Huntington II

That unripe side of earth, that heavy climeThat gives us man up now, like Adams timeBefore he ate; mans shape, that would yet bee(Knew they not it, and fear'd beasts companie)So naked at this day, as though man thereFrom Paradise so great a distance were,As yet the newes could not arrived beeOf Adams tasting the forbidden tree;Depriv'd of that free state which they were in,And wanting the reward, yet beare the sinne.But, as from extreme hights who downward looks,Sees men at childrens shapes, Rivers at brookes,And loseth younger formes; so, to your eye,These (Madame) that without your distance lie,Must either mist, or nothing seeme to be,Who are at home but wits mere Atomi.But, I who can behold them move, and stay,Have found my selfe to you, just their midway;And now must pitty them; for, as they doeSeeme sick to me, just so must I to you.Yet neither will I vexe your eyes to seeA sighing Ode, nor crosse-arm'd Elegie.I come not to call pitty from your heart,Like some white-liver'd dotard that would partElse from his slipperie soule with a faint groane,And faithfully, (without you smil'd) were gone.I cannot feele the tempest of a frowne,I may be rais'd by love, but not throwne down.Though I can pittie those sigh twice a day,I hate that thing whispers it selfe away.Yet since all love is fever, who to treesDoth talke, doth yet in loves cold ague freeze.'Tis love, but, with such fatall weaknesse made,That it deftroyes it selfe with its owne shade.Who first look'd sad, griev'd, pin'd, and shew'd his paine,Was he that first taught women, to disdaine.As all things were one nothing, dull and weake,Vntill this raw disordered heape did breake,And severall desires led parts away,Water declin'd with earth, the ayre did stay,Fire rose, and each from other but unty'd,Themselves unprison'd were and purify'd:So was love, first in vast confusion hid,An unripe willingnesse which nothing did,A thirst, an Appetite which had no ease,That found a want, but knew not what would please.What pretty innocence in those dayes mov'd?Man ignorantly walk'd by her he lov'd;Both sigh'd and enterchang'd a speaking eye,Both trembled and were sick, both knew not why.That naturall fearefulnesse that struck man dumbe,Might well (those times consider'd) man become.As all discoverers whose first assayFindes but the place, after, the nearest way:So passion is to womans love, about,Nay, farther off, than when we first set out.It is not love that sueth, or doth contend;Love either conquers, or but meets a friend.Man's better part consists of purer fire,And findes it selfe allow'd, ere it desire.Love is wise here, keepes home, gives reason sway,And journeys not till it finde summer-way.A weather-beaten Lover but once knowne,Is sport for every girle to practise on.Who strives through womans scornes, women to know,Is lost, and seekes his shadow to outgoe;It must bee sicknesse, after one disdaine,Though he be call'd aloud, to looke againe.Let others sigh, and grieve; one cunning sleightShall freeze my Love to Christall in a night.I can love first, and (if I winne) love still;And cannot be remov'd, unlesse she will.It is her fault if I unsure remaine,Shee onely can untie, and binde againe.The honesties of love with ease I doe,But am no porter for a tedious woo.But (madame) I now thinke on you; and hereWhere we are at our hights, you but appeare,We are but clouds you rise from, our noone-rayBut a foule shadow, not your breake of day.You are at first hand all that's faire and right,And others good reflects but backe your light.You are a perfectnesse, so curious hit,That youngest flatteries doe scandall it.For, what is more doth what you are restraine,And though beyond, is downe the hill againe.We'have no next way to you, we crosse to it:You are the straight line, thing prais'd, attribute;Each good in you's a light; so many a shadeYou make, and in them are your motions made.These are your pictures to the life. From farreWe see you move, and here your Zani's are:So that no fountaine good there is, doth growIn you, but our dimme actions faintly shew.Then finde I, if mans noblest part be love,Your purest luster must that shadow move.The soule with body, is a heaven combin'dWith earth, and for mans ease, but nearer joyn'd.Where thoughts the starres of soule we understand,We guesse not their large natures, but command.And love in you, that bountie is of light,That gives to all, and yet hath infinite.Whose heat doth force us thither to intend,But soule we finde too earthly to ascend,'Till slow accesse hath made it wholy pure,Able immortall clearnesse to endure.Who dare aspire this journey with a staine,Hath waight will force him headlong backe againe.No more can impure man retaine and moveIn that pure region of a worthy love:Then earthly substance can unforc'd aspire,And leave his nature to converse with fire:Such may have eye, and hand; may sigh, may speak;But like swoln bubles, when they are high'st they break.Though far removed Northerne fleets scarce findeThe Sunnes comfort; others thinke him too kinde.There is an equall distance from her eye,Men perish too farre off, and burne too nigh.But as ayre takes the Sunne-beames equall brightFrom the first Rayes, to his last opposite:So able men, blest with a vertuous Love,Remote or neare, or howsoe'r they move;Their vertue breakes all clouds that might annoy,There is no Emptinesse, but all is Ioy.He much profanes whom violent heats do moveTo stile his wandring rage of passion, Love:Love that imparts in every thing delight,Is fain'd, which only tempts mans appetite.Why love among the vertues is not knowneIs, that love is them all contract in one.

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