To the Countesse of Huntingdon

Man to Gods image; Eve, to mans was made,Nor finde wee that God breath'd a soule in her,Canons will not Church functions you invade,Nor lawes to civill office you preferre.

Who vagrant transitory Comets sees,Wonders, because they'are rare; But a new starreWhose motion with the firmament agrees,Is miracle; for, there no new things are;

In woman so perchance milde innocenceA seldome comet is, but active goodA miracle, which reason scapes, and sense;For, Art and Nature this in them withstood.

As such a starre, the Magi led to viewThe manger-cradled infant, God below:By vertues beames by fame deriv'd from you,May apt soules, and the worst may, vertue know.

If the worlds age, and death be argued wellBy the Sunnes fall, which now towards earth doth bend,Then we might feare that vertue, since she fellSo low as woman, should be neare her end.

But she's not stoop'd, but rais'd; exil'd by menShe fled to heaven, that's heavenly things, that's you;She was in all men, thinly scatter'd then,But now amass'd, contracted in a few.

She guilded us: But you are gold, and Shee;Us she inform'd, but transubstantiates you;Soft dispositions which ductile bee,Elixarlike, she makes not cleane, but new.

Though you a wifes and mothers name retaine,'Tis not as woman, for all are not soe,But vertue having made you vertue,'is faineT'adhere in these names, her and you to show,

Else, being alike pure, wee should neither see;As, water being into ayre rarify'd,Neither appeare, till in one cloud they bee,So, for our sakes you do low names abide;

Taught by great constellations, which being fram'd,Of the most starres, take low names, Crab and Bull,When single planets by the Gods are nam'd,You covet not great names, of great things full.

So you, as woman, one doth comprehend,And in the vaile of kindred others see;To some ye are reveal'd, as in a friend,And as a vertuous Prince farre off, to mee.

To whom, because from you all vertues flow,And 'tis not none, to dare contemplate you,I, which doe so, as your true subject oweSome tribute for that, so these lines are due.

If you can thinke these flatteries, they are,For then your judgement is below my praise,If they were so, oft, flatteries worke as farre,As Counsels, and as farre th'endeavour raise.

So my ill reaching you might there grow good,But I remaine a poyson'd fountaine still;But not your beauty, vertue, knowledge, bloodAre more above all flattery, then my will.

And if I flatter any,'tis not youBut my owne judgement, who did long agoePronounce, that all these praises should be true,And vertue should your beauty,'and birth outgrow.

Now that my prophesies are all fulfill'd,Rather then God should not be honour'd too,And all these gifts confess'd, which hee instill'd,Your selfe were bound to say that which I doe.

So I, but your Recorder am in this,Or mouth, or Speaker of the universe,A ministeriall Notary, for'tisNot I, but you and fame, that make this verse;

I was your Prophet in your yonger dayes,And now your Chaplaine, God in you to praise.