To the Countesse of Bedford

You have refin'd mee, and to worthyest things(Vertue, Art, Beauty, Fortune,) now I seeRarenesse, or use, not nature value brings;And such, as they are circumstanc'd, they bee.Two ills can ne're perplexe us, sinne to'excuse;But of two good things, we may leave and chuse.

Therefore at Court, which is not vertues clime,(Where a transcendent height, (as, lownesse mee)Makes her not be, or not show) all my rimeYour vertues challenge, which there rarest bee;For, as darke texts need notes: there some must beeTo usher vertue, and say, This is shee.

So in the country'is beauty; to this placeYou are the season (Madame) you the day,'Tis but a grave of spices, till your faceExhale them, and a thick close bud display.Widow'd and reclus'd else, her sweets she'enshrines;As China, when the Sunne at Brasill dines.

Out from your chariot, morning breaks at night,And falsifies both computations so;Since a new world doth rise here from your light,We your new creatures, by new recknings goe.This showes that you from nature lothly stray,That suffer not an artificiall day.

In this you'have made the Court the Antipodes,And will'd your Delegate, the vulgar Sunne,To doe profane autumnall offices,Whilst here to you, wee sacrificers runne;And whether Priests, or Organs, you wee'obey,We sound your influence, and your Dictates say.

Yet to that Deity which dwels in you,Your vertuous Soule, I now not sacrifice;These are Petitions and not Hymnes; they sueBut that I may survay the edifice.In all Religions as much care hath binOf Temples frames, and beauty,'as Rites within.

As all which goe to Rome, doe not therebyEsteeme religions, and hold fast the best,But serve discourse, and curiosity,With that which doth religion but invest,And shunne th'entangling laborinths of Schooles,And make it wit, to thinke the wiser fooles:

So in this pilgrimage I would beholdYou as you'are vertues temple, not as shee,What walls of tender christall her enfold,What eyes, hands, bosome, her pure Altars bee;And after this survay, oppose to allBablers of Chappels, you th'Escuriall.

Yet not as consecrate, but merely'as faire,On these I cast a lay and country eye.Of past and future stories, which are rare,I finde you all record, and prophecie.Purge but the booke of Fate, that it admitNo sad nor guilty legends, you are it.

If good and lovely were not one, of bothYou were the transcript, and originall,The Elements, the Parent, and the Growth,And every peece of you, is both their All:So'intire are all your deeds, and you, that youMust do the same thinge still; you cannot two.

But these (as nice thinne Schoole divinityServes heresie to furder or represse)Tast of Poëtique rage, or flattery,And need not, where all hearts one truth professe;Oft from new proofes, and new phrase, new doubts grow,As strange attire aliens the men wee know.

Leaving then busie praise, and all appealeTo higher Courts, senses decree is true,The Mine, the Magazine, the Commonweale,The story of beauty,'in Twicknam is, and you.Who hath seene one, would both; As, who had binIn Paradise, would seeke the Cherubin.