To Sr Henry Wotton

Sir, more then kisses, letters mingle Soules;For, thus friends absent speake. This ease controulesThe tediousnesse of my life: But for theseI could ideate nothing, which could please,But I should wither in one day, and passeTo'a bottle'of Hay, that am a locke of Grasse.Life is a voyage, and in our lifes wayesCountries, Courts, Towns are Rockes, or Remoraes;They breake or stop all ships, yet our state's such,That though then pitch they staine worse, wee must touch.If in the furnace of the even line,Or under th'adverse icy poles thou pine,Thou know'st two temperate Regions girded in,Dwell there: But Oh, what refuge canst thou winneParch'd in the Court, and in the country frozen?Shall cities, built of both extremes, be chosen?Can dung and garlike be'a perfume? or canA Scorpion and Torpedo cure a man?Cities are worst of all three; of all three(O knottie riddle) each is worst equally.Cities are Sepulchers; they who dwell thereAre carcases, as if no such there were.And Courts are Theaters, where some men playPrinces, some slaves, all to one end, and of one clay.The Country is a desert, where no good,Gain'd (as habits, not borne,) is understood.There men become beasts, and prone to more evils;In cities blockes, and in a lewd court, devills.As in the first Chaos confusedlyEach elements qualities were in the'other three;So pride, lust, covetize, being feverallTo these three places, yet all are in all,And mingled thus, their issue incestuous.Falshood is denizon'd. Virtue is barbarous.Let no man say there, Virtues flintie wallShall locke vice in mee, I'll do none, but know all.Men are spunges, which to poure out, receive,Who know false play, rather then lose, deceive.For in best understandings, sinne beganne,Angels sinn'd first, then Devills, and then man.Onely perchance beast sinne not; wretched weeAre beasts in all, but white integritie.I thinke if men, which in these places liveDurst looke for themselves, and themselves retrive,They would like strangers greet themselves, seeing thanUtopian youth, growne old Italian.Be thou thine owne home, and in thy selfe dwell;Inne any where, continuance maketh hell.And seeing the snaile, which every where doth rome,Carrying his owne house still, still is at home,Follow (for he is easie pac'd) this snaile,Bee thine owne Palace, or the world's thy gaile.And in the worlds sea, do not like corke sleepeUpon the waters face; nor in the deepeSinke like a lead without a line: but asFishes glide, leaving no print where they passe,Nor making sound; so closely thy course goe,let men dispute, whether thou breathe, or no.Onely'in this one thing, be no Galenist: To makeCourts hot ambitions wholesome, do not takeA dramme of Countries dulnesse; do not addeCorrectives, but as chymiques, purge the bad.Say o'er those lessons, which I learn'd of you:Whom, free from German schismes, and lightnessOf France, and faire Italies faithlesnesse,Having from these suck'd all they had of worth,And brought home that faith, which you carried forth,I throughly love. But if my selfe, I'have wonneTo know my rules, I have, and you haveDONNE:

The Country is a desert, where no good,Gain'd, as habits, not borne, is understood.

The Country is a desert, where the good,Gain'd inhabits not, borne, is not understood.

The Country is a desert, where noe goodGain'd doth inhabit, nor born's understood.