virtues ANATOMY. OR A compendious DESCRIPTION OF THAT late Right Honourable, Memorable, and Renowned Bedfordshire Lady, the Lady CHEANY, of Tuddington.  
By CHARLES PIERCE.  
LONDON, Printed by William jones, dwelling in red-cross Street. 1618.   

TO THE MOST VIRTUOUS, AND TRVELY RELIGIous Lady, the Lady CROFTS, wife to that worthy Knight Sir JOHN CROFTS, all health and prosperity in this world, and eternal joy and felicity in the world to come.  
RIGHT worshipful, or rather Right worthy Lady: the title of the former, being made more illustrious by the fruition of the latter. For honours and dignities are not the precedent cause of virtue, but virtue of them: I have, I fear, assumed too much upon me, and broken the bounds of that old proverb; ●e suitor ultra crepitum: yet, worthy Lady, on whose favourable acceptance, not on my own deserts, I altogether rely: do humbly crave your ladyships most gracious protection, to shelter me from those malignant, which might oppose themselves against me: I know it wants that beauty, hue, and amiable aspect, which should externally adorn it, and make it pleasing in your eyes. Yet if your Ladyship please to take a view of the inward truth and sincere devotion of the heart, it may prove as true begotten, though not so fairly featured as the rest. For as it is in nature, so it is in art, much vice may lie hid in fair complexions, and much hypocrisy in art. I speak not this, good Lady, to derogate aught from learned Arts, or worthy wits enriched with eloquence, whereby my impoverished and naked lines should be clothed with their garments; but that I fear the hard censures of these ill spoken times, as much as I hope to receive some favourable construction from your worthy self.  
If any put out a Quaere, and ask me why I wrote this book, I could allege many reasons: but I cease to erect too large a portal to so small a structure; I had rather my book should be abstracted then detracted. Give me leave therefore, rather in few words to express what I would, then in many what I could speak. Since so many, whose loves depend upon your ladyships deserts, do offer up gifts, a testimony of the love they own, which have of long time known your most free and gentle dispotions, and seen the virtuous inclinations of your mind. I could not choose, nor in common Christianity do any less, if no other bound affection, nor duty had moved me, but show some thankfulness with the rest, though satisfaction I cannot give with the best. I have therefore presumed to present unto your Ladyship, not such as your honour doth deserve, or as I desire, or as my duty and the subject of my book do require, but such as my small ability, or rather inability, could prepare to offer unto you: for having no need of external gifts, I give the internal gifts of the mind, as a free thought, a lame sacrifice not worthy to be recorded with those great ones, which could cast above a widows mite into the treasury, or offer up unto their master more than a cup of cold water. Read it, most pious Lady, if ought be in it worthy the least respect or favour, it is not mine, but her honours and your Ladyships, from whose most pure & eminent virtues this dim and dark candle of mine took her first light. Some may hold it a disparagement to her honour, because est ab indigno, others may judge I writ truly, but not sufficiently, both are right: for silent duty, though in itself it is commendable, yet in respect of others, it wins more love being active, laus virtutis actio; and for the other, what my weak skill doth deny, yet my urging will supply: ultra posse non est esse. What should I speak of your ladyships free and bounteous disposition? What should I speak of those ornaments and graces you are both inwardly & outwardly endued with? which with as many tongues as Argus had eyes, spread abroad your deserved worth, that I cannot tell whether our soil more justly admires you, or inwardly desires you: 
Where virtuous life, fair children, happy state,  
Do all concur to make you fortunate,  
And whereas many will hereafter mind you,  
Blest in the issue that you left behind you,  
In which most fruitful buds as may outlive you,  
Your worth and yours a double life may give you,  
Where though your soul had reached eternity,  
Your name on earth may live and never die.  So thrive fair Lady, and flourish ever in those fair paths of virtue, that as it was a blessing to David that one of his seed did inherit his earthly Throne, so it may be a greater blessing to your Ladyship, that many of your seed, should inherit the Throne eternal. It was not so great a glory for Solomon to inherit his Father's Kingdom, as his Father's holiness and virtues: Then how much, Madam, may you rejoice in either, that yours enjoy not only much temporal honours and blessings, but also are endued with many gifts and graces of the Spirit, great lovers of virtue, and embracers of true religion and piety. Long may they so continue to your ladyships full joy. Long may they all live and grow old in honours and virtues, and with that Poet ever wish: 
Fortunati omnes, si quid mea carmina possunt:  
Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet aevo.  Thus humbly entreating your good Ladyship to accept this my first and mean labour, under whose wings it most hopefully trusts, I rest.  
Yours all too mean, and far unworthy servant, but not least devoted, Charles Pierce.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD, THE LORD WENTWORTH.  
WHen meanness speaks, and honours balance weighs him:  
Had need speak well, for fear his tongue betrays him  
Lest undiscerning, there discovered lies  
Some mark of folly to judicious eyes.  
Even so, great Lord, my timorous quill proceeds  
Much like a scholar, that his lesson reads  
Before his awful master, trembling still  
Whether unkind he said it well or ill.  
So like that pupil I the lists do enter,  
More bold than wise to give the perilous venture:  
And cannot tell what dangers may ensue,  
Did not I hope much honour lay in you.  
Not like that Fortune's brood, whose airy spirits  
Do mount them Icarus-like above their merits,  
Where when their flight's at highest rise of all,  
The Sun doth melt their wings, and then they fall:  
Or like Narcissus, who did fond look  
On his own shadow in a crystal brook,  
And doting on't, stepped nearer to have kissed it,  
Where he fell in, and drowned himself, yet missed it.  
Even so this world which these fair streams behold,  
Build their attempts upon such hopes too bold,  
Making the drossy substance of this earth,  
The greatest cause of honour and of birth:  
Some loving honours so, buy them, to make them:  
Better contented they, that can forsake them,  
Yet our best natures fail in this and use them,  
he's a rare man that proffered, can refuse them.  
But you great Lord descended of a race,  
Which virtue merit, and desert doth grace,  
Made great by birth and honour, not by chance,  
As Fortune's wont her followers to advance,  
Can better tell these things than I can name them,  
And learn, such vain affections, how to tame them:  
Whereby your Predecessors got more grace,  
And more renown, than time can ere deface:  
Combining to your noble house that fame  
Which lives in you unblemished, far from blame.  
And though that I, great Lord, do write of that,  
Which Fame, the world, and time have wondered at,  
And by adventuring, wrong my shallow wit,  
In aiming at the mark I cannot hit.  
Yet let some gracious censure from your honour  
Fall on my pen, which took too much upon her,  
Since from that stream and fountain you do spring,  
As this most noble lady did, I sing:  
Her worth impeached, yours must eclipsed be,  
Which in all things with hers doth co-agree.  
Though my plain duty, all too mean, prefers,  
Yet read great Lord not for my sake, but hers,  
Which was a light to those, that far succeeds  
For virtuous 〈◊〉 and honourable deeds:  
Who draws 〈◊〉 such; how much more than  
Need they, of virtue store to equal them,  
When springing honour in such tender years  
Unto the world, so fresh and green appears.  
What shall we think of after coming time,  
But that your glory more and more will shine;  
Where that bright star, within your breast begun,  
May quickly rise to be a glorious Sun:  
And in the highest Sphere of golden fame,  
Rides heavens large circuit with your noble name,  
So thrive still, honour flourish ever fair,  
Let no clouds rise, such glory to impair,  
Nor your proceed any whit dismay,  
T'eclypse the beauty of so fair a day;  
But that your glass at eu'nings' watch match may run  
As fair and clear, as when it first begun.  
Then noble Lord my humble duty spare,  
What wants in me, your Honour may repair,  
And mend those ruinous breaches, which my quill  
Hath fallen into, for want of better skill:  
And I as bound to this, shall tune my song,  
Pray heavens true honour may continue long.  
Thus not presuming, what may be amiss,  
I pardon crave, and make an end with this.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE the Lady WENTWORTH  
RIght Honourable ere I do begin  
I pardon crave, presumption is a sin,  
Lest I too much upon myself relying,  
May Icarus-like perhaps repent my flying.  
The plague of many Poets, which do think  
Their own to be the pure immortal drink,  
But I that far inferior am to them,  
Ascribe no such vainglory to my pen,  
Nor yet will overprize, what I do know  
Is passed my skill to judge, or power to show.  
If aught within this little volume lies,  
A work too weak for your judicious eyes,  
Which might 'gainst me the smallest fire incense,  
I should be loath to give so much offence:  
Yet do not fix your wrath before you try,  
And hear great Lady my Apology.  
Perchance my meanness bars me of that favour,  
Which others gain in as unworthy labour,  
If that it doth or bare original birth  
In sight of heaven, is nought or little worth:  
he's no accepter of the noblest blood,  
Above the meaner persons which are good,  
All's one to him, his power created all,  
he's great'st with him, that on his name doth call.  
The abjects and the outcasts of all things,  
In this prerogative may compare with Kings:  
Heavens are not partial, all's alike respected,  
None for their greatest honour are elected,  
If this be not the cause, another yet  
May hazard what this former could not hit,  
And bid me call in question strait my pen,  
That hath not writ so learned as other men,  
Having a subject so replete with honour,  
And could not show no better skill upon her.  
This plunges deeper, and hard claim doth lay  
Unto my thoughts, I know not what to say:  
But since thou canst not paint, nor steal no wit  
With borrowed shapes, or Arts to furnish it,  
In plainest colours thou hast truly penned them,  
Virtue and honour need no art to mend them.  
Besides, it was her pleasure, mind and will,  
To have her virtues undervalued still;  
For it is not so true, as common known,  
The purest virtues never seek their own,  
And heavens agree, and with their names dispense  
To grace the truth, and leave out eloquence:  
For he respects the heart more than the tongue,  
Or else we all should do his Godhead wrong.  
Then if that heavens in this from blame doth free me,  
Why should not mortals through his glory see me?  
And set me free from any scorn and hate,  
Since heaven in all things, all should imitate.  
It may be yet another may arise  
And show itself unpleasing to your eyes;  
And that is this: the want of wealth and state,  
Which holds too many in disgrace and hate,  
Yet in the sight of heavens the poorest are graced,  
And are not for their want of means displaced:  
If the smallest mite or spark of grace he finds  
Doth work at all, within their hearts and minds:  
Nor doth he cast away the poorest slave  
From entering in, if grace be found to save;  
But like unto decayed plants, doth cherish  
Their dying roots, and will not let them perish,  
Then noble Lady, if that these may claim  
The least respect, and shelter me from blame,  
I shall be glad: when first I undertook  
To write to such great minds, this little book;  
Where my too worthless duty more affords,  
Concealed within, not to be told in words.  
Accept it (Honour) then since 'tis the first,  
Your greatness soon may graced, or make it worse:  
But whether 'tis my fortune or my fate,  
I now must take't, repentance comes too late:  
Yet many favours, far above my merit,  
I have received from your most noble spirit:  
Which makes me hope, that now I shall not miss,  
But likewise be received and graced in this,  
For which I'll study by my best endeaver,  
In faithful service, bound fast yours for ever.  
Then, noble Lady, deign to take a view  
Of those fair virtuous parts, and honours true,  
Which fair example left so rich behind,  
To fill the virtuous storehouse of your mind,  
Whose worthy branches from that tree descended  
Make honours go with virtues rich attended:  
Where some of them, if all you do not find,  
Engraven in your honourable mind.   

TO SIR HENRY CROFTS.  
IF that my lines may be at all respected,  
And not for their unworthiness rejected,  
Which, though too mean, feign would remember yet  
The love I own, which many do forget,  
The service and the duty which desires,  
(Though your deserts far greater worth requires)  
To yield some thanks by mean endeavours priest,  
You in your better judgement know the rest:  
From shepherds cells, expect no more to find,  
Then what may please the best contented mind.  
Our tables are not furnished with such cost  
For sumptuous cheer, or lofty fair to boast:  
Such as we have we give, on trust we go not,  
To entertain you, Sir, with that we own not:  
Nor yet by stealth do seek to win your love,  
To bear the name of that we cannot prove:  
Though entertainment, house and cheer be small,  
The heart is true which doth invite you all;  
And will in better wishes more content ye,  
Then in this book my barren brain hath lent ye.  
I cannot fly in learned lofty phrases,  
But do adorn my style with truth, not praises:  
Nor pass I for conceits, which are precise,  
But only write to please the virtuous wise:  
For I have read, that true and noble minds,  
The best content in willing natures finds.  
Honour receives no fall, by want of skill  
If Gentle doom do fall upon my quill:  
Then, worthy Knight, since that you are some aim,  
And not the least hopes that my Muse doth claim,  
Accept and pardon what amiss is found,  
That built this frame upon so weak a ground;  
Nor let not duty, wanting learned lore,  
Be counted folly, nor my service poor;  
But be received, wherein it comes far short,  
Respecting more my will, than my desert.   

TO THE LADY CROMPTON.  
MAdam, 'tis not for want of time but wit,  
That I no sooner of her virtues writ;  
Though late, yet take that chance which doth befall,  
Better thus meanly sung, than not at all.  
Where I delaying for some learned wit,  
Let slipped occasion which might better fit:  
Yet since her virtues were so great and many,  
Which cannot justly be denied of any;  
Much less of you, and of that house before,  
Where they engraven lie twice ten times more,  
Such kind affections work in worthy breasts,  
That honour dying, yet is not deceased;  
But lives in you, where often it doth find  
A heavy memorandum from the mind:  
Such honoured friends are not so soon forgotten,  
Though in their graves they long lie dead and rotten,  
But ever now and then the Spirit will move,  
And fetch a sigh or two for her it loves,  
Bewraying of itself in tears, when any  
Speaks of the name of noble Lady Cheany:  
Then fair and worthy Lady, whose pure mind  
Doth virtue in so fair a mansion bind,  
Whose parts for natural, moral, and divine,  
Excels the force of my weak feeble rhyme.  
Vouchsafe to read her, whom you once so loved,  
And spare those faults which love and duty moved;  
Nor, Madam, do not judge my service slack,  
That pays not here your merits what they lack,  
Nor prize your worth, nor that fair mark can hit,  
But make affection play the thief for it,  
Where since I reached at wit, as 'twere by stealth,  
Let that worth in you better praise yourself.   

TO THE LADY BENNET.  
MAdam, the service I do owe to all  
Your sisters, and your house in general,  
Would ask a volume, if that I could write it,  
Or had but wit sufficient to indite it.  
Yet, Madam, since I have no worldly store,  
I give you that, I never gave before:  
And wanting one, yet may you take the other,  
The fruits, my weak invention could discover.  
Hear in this little volume may be read,  
Some of her noble virtues, being dead;  
Where you may strive in imitation,  
To make more glorious by your application.  
Some can glean virtue from the smallest things,  
And honey suck from meanest flowers that springs:  
Then how much more from her, whose honour true,  
Such store of virtues doth afford to you.  
Where, Madam, your fair intellective mind,  
May more than I can, or have uttered, find.  
Read o'er her life, and in your judgement view her,  
Who hath not much admired, that ever knew her?  
Where eyes, ears, hearts, are vanished with the same,  
Of her long happy, and time-honored name.  
Then, Madam, since my meanness is too great,  
Of such a weighty subject to entreat:  
Some favour lend, to grace this work the better,  
For which acceptance, I will die your debtor.   

TO THE LADY MILDMAY.  
MAdam, some strangeness may possess you, when  
You look on these, and think upon my pen,  
What vain and high conceit my bosom haunted,  
That would not be with such great honour daunted.  
Yet, kind and virtuous Lady, let me crave  
What others in the like attempts may have:  
You which do represent to me her name,  
How can I hold you guiltless of her fame?  
But they must both concur within your breast,  
To keep for ever their most bounteous feast:  
No small affection she could bear to you,  
Give Honour and your own Deserts their due:  
She loved you living, and with many graces  
Did fill your soul, which virtue now embraces:  
Where Nature hath so well the workman played,  
And her full due to every member paid;  
That nought doth want within her bounteous store,  
But lent it you to grace her glory more.  
Then, fair and worthy Lady, condescend  
To read these humble lines, and favour lend  
To what may with your judgement disagree,  
Your liking lent, can grace both it and me:  
For such rare minds with noble deeds ensue,  
Will ask no little wit to sing them true:  
'Tis no small work, nor sleight, nor easy task,  
Wherein her virtues do so dimly mask.  
What my defective pen doth want of skill.  
Your virtuous mind accepting, may fulfil.  
To whose clear bosom I do leave the rest,  
Which owes you more, then can be here expressed.   

TO THE IMPARTIAL AND indifferent Reader.  

REader whatsoever thou art accept, if may be,  
These humble verses clad in shepherds weeds,  
My subject is an honourable Lady,  
And of her virtuous life and sacred deeds.  
Therefore I would entreat thee when thou reads  
Vomit no venom forth, nor poisoned gall,  
Lest that the like upon thy pen befall.   

Perchance thou look'st for, that I cannot give,  
Some overflowing phrase of eloquence,  
Wherein her high deserts might better live,  
And yield the curious artist less offence:  
But with his itching vain I can dispense  
And tell him this, pure virtue loves to wear  
Not all rich stuff, but sometimes Camels hair.   

I do not know thy nature nor condition,  
Be what thou wilt I'll near orerunne thy favour,  
I only writ to gentle dispositions  
And may as well respect the meanest labour  
Than do not show thyself of rough behaviour  
As sharply for to censure what is written,  
Mad dogs they are when none can scape unbitten.   

Then pass thy verdict gently on my lines,  
Show not thyself more cruel than the rest,  
I writ not for to please disordered times,  
But those to whom time hath marked for the best,  
Then take thy course or yield to my request,  
For I do stand indifferent rightly than  
Speak what thou wilt speak and blame not my pen.    

virtues ANATOMY.  

Ye powers divine, sole aid of human wits,  
Assist me with your sacred spirit a while,  
And guide me in that path where virtue sits,  
And not with idle matters to defile  
My time, her honour, and thy glory best,  
With light vain pamphlets, as have done the rest.   

But in some fairer course direct my lines,  
That they may quiet pass untouched of wrongs,  
Too weak I know to please these curious times,  
Which swarms about like bees with stinging tongues:  
Keep thy steps even, for there is none to right thee,  
If once Detraction that mad dog doth bite thee▪   

Then Oh thou doleful Dame and tragic muse,  
Which in black sable tunes dost ever mourn:  
Some of thy power into my breast infuse,  
That my dim candle may the better burn,  
And give the clearer light unto her honour:  
Admired so much of all that e'er heard on her.   

A subject far unfit for such a quill  
But that I think some fatal hand doth guide it,  
And carries me away against my will,  
Not suffering me within my breast to hide it:  
Such fire as this doth seldom burn within me  
That hath such power thus from myself to win me.   

Nor do I think sufficient my weak skill  
So great a subject for to entertain,  
Far be such thoughts from my unworthy quill  
Which humbly writes, and not for glory vain:  
No I do know myself, praise cannot tempt me,  
Since Learning, wit, and all things else prevent me.   

But for some stricter bond, which nearer ties me,  
And zeal unto that honoured house I own,  
Which far above my power doth seek to try me,  
My duty in these humble lines to show:  
This mite of wit, this little talent lent me,  
Which my bond service, all too mean hath sent thee.   

For which I do confess Minerva might  
Have cause to sing in memorable lines,  
The Muses, if they did her honour right,  
Might have sufficient work for after times;  
And all the learned wits that were of yore,  
Might spend some pains to grace her virtues more.   

But this wild age which for the most part graces'  
The vicious nature and the heartless minds:  
And honours asses spring from golden races  
Wherein true merit seldom any finds:  
For where there's one such, fit for honours place,  
there's ten for him which fills them with disgrace.   

For gilded greatness stick too much with praises,  
Whose swelling pride bears all things down before them,  
This age to greater fame and fortune raises,  
That like to demi-gods the world adores them,  
What pearls of praises daily of them rings,  
Blown with the wind of adulations wings.   

What arms, what trophies have they not erected,  
What glory brought their upstart houses to,  
And in this world what persons more respected  
What is't so hard but that their power can do:  
Mammon their God, can purchase all for them  
Lands, fame, renown, nay more the souls of men.   

These like the Dragon carry with their tail  
The third part of the stars, and rule the earth:  
Their pride and power with control prevail,  
And eat up poor men like a timeless dearth:  
These which their greatness keep the world in awe;  
Their will, their reason, and must stand for law.   

For which great cause Dame virtue ever mourns  
That her own heirs are destitute of favours,  
And others worthless placed in their rooms  
To feed upon their true deserving labours:  
Whilst they do swell with honours she doth pine,  
And must be forced to beg or serve the time.   

Oh ye desired times reverse your course  
Unto those ancient customs which were then,  
And let not these preferments lighs of worse  
Which were ordained for wise and learned men,  
For honour, virtue, wisdom, worth and merit,  
Are the true heirs those places to inherit.   

Oh pardon me if I mistake my pen,  
And from my purpose do a little serve,  
It is the great abuses of these men,  
Which do the time, themselves and fortune serve,  
That are unto that height of greatness grown,  
Masking in merits shape, and not their own.   

Was this the first cause of gentility,  
Or from what stock or root did it descend  
Was this the ground of true humanity,  
Their greatness, by their greatness to offend:  
Was this the race from whom all Gentles sprung  
Wherein that worthy name was first begun?   

Was lands or large possessions the foundation  
That men unto that reverend title came,  
Or this world's largest rule or domination,  
Whereon so many did their glories frame,  
If these must be the cause what will you call  
Adam to be, which first possessed all?   

If what this earth's great compass forth could bring  
Whereof the least part makes a Gentile now:  
Might neither be a Gentlle, Lord, nor King  
Nor to him honours nor renown allow,  
Why should his brood with pride so much abound,  
Possessing but a little piece of ground?   

Wast wealth or all the riches of the earth,  
Without the which the best are held in scorn,  
That could compose a Gentleman by birth,  
Being merely from the loins of Adam borne?  
Oh no if I should crave that fair descent,  
From that foul root I fear I should be shent.   

Wast might or some oppressing Nymrod's hand  
Whose powerful pride did awe the weaker creatures,  
And sought by force and violence to command  
More than his own, and raise that name to nature,  
No heavens forbidden usurping tyranny,  
Should ere be sprung from true gentility.   

What was it then from humane birth derived  
And had it her first being from that kind,  
The mark for which antiquity long hath strived,  
And which doth challenge the most fairest sign?  
Oh, how can nature (I would ask this first)  
Be gentle called, whom heavens before had cursed?   

No Adam, if that these can title claim,  
(As none without them now lives in request)  
And challenge to themselves this gentle name,  
Which at the first was only given the best:  
Then was thy birth, thy wealth, and worldly store  
The most, and great'st: what man had ever more?   

No, these are but th'admired brood of time,  
Blown like a bladder up with froth and wind,  
Made worldly great by providence divine  
When small gentility resteth in their mind:  
Their fortunes rises but their virtues fall,  
Poorest in greatest plenty, weak when great'st of all.   

But why do I to little purpose strive,  
And make myself more curious far than wise,  
This name from her beginning to derive?  
When every vulgar worldling (too precise)  
Do hold too little for his swelling pride,  
Whom no bounds hold, nor compass true can guide.   

Yet since my labouring pen so much doth crave,  
To search the ground of this so worthy name,  
I must attempt with that bare skill I have  
For to define, lest that I purchase blame.  
For all these four rehearsed can never do it,  
Although they lay hard claim, and title to it.   

'Twas virtue, merit, and an humble mind;  
'Twas courteous qualities, and most fair conditions;  
'Twas true desert, love, and affections kind,  
Graced with the mil'dst and purest dispositions;  
'Twas learned arts, and honour which proceeds,  
Not from rough might, but weak & bounteous deeds.   

'Twas an assisting, not oppressing hand,  
That did extend to charitable uses,  
Defending right, and truth which could not stand  
Free in those days from wrongs, and some abuses,  
Whose zeal did burn with virtue, and made all  
Their end true honour, not an others fall.   

IT was justice, piety, and a sacred spirit,  
Which first enforced that fair name to be given,  
Adored with famous deeeds, and noble merits  
Whose birth, and being is derived from heaven;  
No carnal birth no wealth, nor worldly honour  
Can well be said to have affinity from her.   

And yet the most (this age so much bewitches)  
Digress from these, or else my muse mustly  
Translated now to honour, state, and riches,  
In which most hold, is truest gentility,  
But let them have it, I will not contend,  
Their honours may deceive them all i'th' end.   

Great King of heaven and earth, how shall I speak,  
Which am but dust, and ashes unto thee,  
When my soul's faculties are all too weak  
Once to conceive the meanest thought of thee?  
And yet thou termest thyself but Son of man  
Which vild worms scorn, whose glory's but a span.   

Ambition's age, can Avarice blind thee so,  
To build such castles in uncertain air?  
What can your honours, powers and riches do?  
For age, and death they'll leave you to despair,  
Where thou canst not redeem an hours time,  
Though all the goods in thousand worlds were thine.   

Think ye to buy his favour with a price,  
Or fee him with so many golden mines?  
Can any let sin purchase paradise,  
Or give sufficient ransom for your crimes?  
Oh no these dreams do but your senses tickle,  
For in that hour, all that you hau's too little.   

Reverse your error, let not these molest you,  
Why should fair falsehood blind your mental eyes?  
That it may once be said virtue possessed you,  
Wherein the truest fame and honour lies:  
For smal's that greatness, poor & weak that glory,  
Which hath his trust upon things transitory.   

Then seek not to enrich posterity,  
With an oppressing hand and cruel might:  
Nor build your houses up by tyranny,  
Nor take possession of the poor man's right:  
Lest Achab-like, in buying so you sell  
Your house, your soul, and all you have to hell.   

What profit shall your tired souls receive  
Of all these riches, you have heaped together?  
When in a moment you must take your leave  
Of all your store, and go you know not whither:  
Your children show your wealth, the world your shame,  
And all do hate the memory of your name.   

Most odious ever, hated of God and men,  
Accursed riches, which will waste in using,  
Unlucky, and unblessed issue then,  
When all you have is purchased by abusing:  
Your parents knew not that their goods ill gotten  
Their heirs would spend, when they were dead & rotten.   

Oh what a joyful thing 'tis to behold,  
Heirs to succeed their fires in virtuous lore?  
And strive their houses honour to uphold  
With greater glory than it had before:  
Studying by noble deeds t'enrich their name,  
To their immortal praise and endless fame.   

But ah I fear, what I would not mistrust,  
That heirs to prodigal vices rather turn;  
And leave their honours trodden in the dust,  
The loss whereof some ancient houses mourn,  
Not living like themselves, in birth; but slaves,  
Burying all virtue in their father's graves.   

The cause of which great waste and fall of heirs,  
I judge the impious times of wretched fathers;  
Whose avaricious thoughts and greedy cares;  
To fatten them and theirs, unjustly gathers;  
And waste their brains in studying day and night,  
To purchase that, which is another's right.   

Oh why should these be graced? why should a pen  
Dipped in the purest liquor of those springs,  
Attend the earthly glory of these men,  
Which shame unto the truest honour brings:  
As we do see Fame none so much doth boast  
As those whose lives have tyrannized it most?   

If these, unto such fortunes have attained,  
Built on the slippery ground of fading Fame,  
Then what great glory shall thy honour gain?  
Or what sufficient pen can praise the same?  
If Vice with Tombs, and epitaphs is renowned,  
Wherewith shall thy rare virtuous deeds be crowned?   

If outside honour, if usurped greatness,  
If painted pictures of Iniquity,  
Can have their praises sung with wondrous sweetness,  
Which near deserved the meanest dignity;  
What shall the true bred honour of the mind,  
Adorned with virtues excellencies, find?   

Did not thy ventures challenge from Fame's wings,  
One quill or pen t'immortalize thy name?  
Is any envious Serpent left that stings,  
Or can with th'smallest tincture touch thy fame?  
Are not thy virtues and thy honours blest  
With as great grace, and glory as the rest?   

Then why should not some worthy spirits uprise,  
And with undaunted quill her honour sing?  
Why should they not her worth and virtues prize,  
As high as theirs which from corruption springs?  
Whose shame's their glory, & their aime's (their stain)  
At nought but worldly things, and glory vain.   

No, worthy Lady, do not think a Tomb  
Can thy fresh memory from this world divide:  
Nor think that this earth's all-devouring womb  
Within her bowels, can thy virtues hide,  
Nor wrong thy merits, nor arrest thy worth,  
Which spite of Time, will spring and flourish forth.   

That monumental white, fair marble Tomb,  
Cannot contain thy noble deeds and merits,  
When all the world is known too little room  
To comprehend, in bounds, thy boundless spirit:  
But still shall time, with us, be ever telling  
Ages to come, thy virtuous life excelling.   

Nor, do not think, though in corruptions bed  
Thy body lies interred at Tuddington,  
That therefore thou art quite forgot and dead,  
Or from our memories clean exiled and gone:  
No, no, thy name and fame again will raise thee,  
And spite of death, will make the world to praise thee.   

No 'twas decreed of everlasting fate,  
That virtue should endure, and never die:  
Made to outlive Times rage, and longest date,  
Writ with a pen of sure eternity:  
Where if the Muses fail her worth to raise,  
Then babes and sucklings will speak forth her praise.   

Which hath induced my infant Muse to write,  
My suckling wits, which all too mean presumes,  
Where if that learning cannot well indite,  
How shall I do with these impolished tunes?  
But hope the best; for evils come soonest then,  
When least suspected, and deserving them.   

Then launch into the Ocean of her honour,  
So rare a Phoenix, and our country's wonder:  
Thy Muse, I doubt much merit will take from her;  
Or else her silly back will split asunder,  
Yet bear the sails up, heavens may send a wind  
T'inspire me how to praise her virtuous mind.   

Which they that true religion pure and blessed,  
Not mixed with Idolatry, nor defiled:  
Whose virtuous life and deeds did her profess,  
An Israelite true, in whom there was no guile;  
Embracing of the sacred truth in love,  
From which no worldly cares could her remove.   

That sought to know and learn those arts Divine.  
Which only unto true salvation tend;  
And therein much did exercise her mind,  
To profit by the truth which all defend:  
Misplacing errors, which do seek to blind  
The way of truth, in selfe-affected mind.   

No verbal, but a mental true profession,  
Engraven in her honourable breast;  
Wherein it took most sure and deep impression,  
That grace and honour here did ever rest:  
Making the one illustrious by the other,  
As if they were both twins, sprung from one mother.   

And surely so they are, as near allied,  
Who wins their honours by their virtues first  
Can witness well their noble deeds have tried,  
Though Fortune now bestows them on the worst:  
'Tis but external honour they do win,  
Whose houses end, before they do begin.   

For thou Religion art a silly sound,  
Accounted in these nice and curious times,  
Of many mighty troubles made the ground,  
Whom oversearching doubts, and errors blinds:  
So many truths, that which of them to take,  
To many wandering wits do question make.   

This is the truth, they'll never start away;  
From this unto another strait they are gone:  
Then to that sect they know not what to say,  
Thus are they busy in all, but firm in none:  
Then this they like, then that, then strait they'll turn  
To any thing, I think, before they'll burn.   

Such trees, which like the figtree seems most fair,  
When nought but leaves and blossoms it affords;  
And in the eyes of th'world are judged most rare,  
That only paints Religion out in words,  
That learns to tip their tongues with Arts divine,  
When damned Hypocrisy resteth in their mind.   

Whose gesture, works, looks, words, and actions all  
With similar shows are varnished to deceive men,  
With heau p up hands and eyes to heaven they call,  
As if devotion would of sense bereave them:  
And knock their breasts, when as their hearts within  
Lie buried up in flesh, and blood, and sin.   

Such strange comixtures of Religion holds them,  
That they, like madmen, care not where they bite:  
And judas-like, a little price hath sold them,  
That even the worst of errors they do like:  
Thus are they, through their own rash-daring skill,  
Led captive of the Devil, to do his will.   

How many strange Religions are there found,  
That will dispute of truth, and seem to know it?  
How many sects, and rules, yet all unsound?  
As this vain, light-beleeving age can show it.  
If such a number into errors fall,  
How many more, which hold no truth at all?   

Good God, which art the only truth and guide,  
Keep's from those errors, wherein some are caught,  
That we from thee may never fall nor slide,  
But willingly embrace the Gospel taught:  
That no inventions, heresies, crafts or guiles  
May work in us, our safety to beguile.   

But, worthy Lady, who didst keep the truth  
From superstition, and Idolatry free;  
Both in old age, in middle years and youth,  
That in such greatness few have done like thee:  
Where many live, to whom that name belongs,  
Which only Christianize it in their tongues.   

But thy firm resolution fixed was,  
And unremoved stood against all those,  
Which seems to set a colour, and a gloss  
Upon Religion, falsehood to enclose:  
Under which fair pretext often doth lie,  
Most dangerous deep deceits our souls to try.   

The truth thy soul delighted: not to strive  
On idle questions, which no profit brings;  
Whilst some new sought inventions can contrive,  
To draw hard questions from the meanest things:  
Wresting those words, that sense, to what they'd have it,  
And not as right and true constructions crave it.   

But thou, the praise of these unconstant times,  
Mad'st not this world the pattern to do ill;  
But like a candle didst in darkness shine,  
And fram'dst thy life unto thy Maker's will,  
Not tossed to and fro with every wind,  
Which wraps in many errors wandering minds.   

But didst continue, to thy utmost breath,  
A zealous Protestant, and religious friend:  
Not stained with heresy in thy life, nor death,  
But seald'st thy last gasp with a glorious end:  
Which made the Angels sing, and heavens rejoice,  
That thou with Mary madest so good a choice.   

Thy faith as great and rare, did apprehend  
The second person in the Trinity:  
On whom thy whole salvation did depend,  
Wrought by his passions so effectually:  
Not mingling of his merits with human powers,  
Ascribing that to us, which is not ours.   

But to thyself by private application,  
Didst seize on all those promises sweet and fair,  
Writ in the Scriptures for our consolation,  
To keep us up from horror and despair:  
That when deep floods, & waters seem to drown us,  
Our faith may shine in darkness then, & crown us.   

And bring our souls into that glorious rest,  
Wrought by his passions, sufferings, death and merit,  
Which he hath purchased for the chosen best,  
After this mortal labour to inherit:  
Redeeming us, when we were cast away,  
With such a price as none but he could pay.   

That holy one, that pure unspotted Lamb,  
That did descend, from his eternal thrown,  
For us vile sinners, being God and man;  
To satisfy the wrath of heaven alone:  
And underwent such torments, griefs, and pains,  
To make his greatest loss, our greatest gains.   

Oh happy Lady, whose erected mind,  
This glorious object of thy faith so loves?  
Thy soul's delight, which joys and comforts find,  
Where all the trial of thy faith he proves:  
And views the pure devotions of thy heart,  
Which for his service thou hadst set apart.   

There, in that everlasting book of fate,  
Are written down the trial of thy love,  
Thy faith, zeal, piety, and that happy state,  
Which far beyond our thoughts, thy soul doth prove:  
Such great felicity, joys, which joys excel,  
That tongues of men and Angels cannot tell.   

Can the heavens see thy labours and endeavour,  
And to thy loving cares give no regard?  
Thy constancy, whereby thou didst persever  
Unto the end, and yield thee no reward?  
Oh no, 'tis hard to think, but worse to say,  
That heavens great giver should himself denay!   

He that rewards unjust and wicked men  
With ample benefits, shall he not be kind  
Unto his own dear chosen children then;  
Or suffer them to slip out of his mind?  
If he so liberal be to the unjust,  
What shall he be to those that in him trust?   

Oh no, Great Lady, he will do no wrong,  
Nor once deny himself, let none so think;  
he's just and true, although he beareth long;  
Nor is he blind, although he seem to wink:  
But doth behold thy faith, which never faints,  
Where he doth crown thee with his dearest Saints.   

That bitter combat held with flesh and blood,  
And mighty conflict, which assaults the best;  
Which by his powerful hand thou hast withstood,  
And quenched those fiery darts which never rest:  
But still new battles, war and strife begin  
Against our souls, fair Zion's for't to win.   

Yet all these cannot shake thy glorious hold,  
See firm and constant faith doth still endure,  
Which makes thy trust and confidence so bold;  
Aid him that most undoubted aid assure;  
He takes thy part, he will not see thee foiled,  
Nor to thy foes become a prey, nor spoiled.   

Hear did the trial of thy faith appear,  
In his continual fight with flesh and blood,  
Which show'd thy love unto thy Saviour dear,  
Which could not be by worldly hopes withstood:  
But still persisted, striving for to win  
That powerful monster, Hydraheaded sin.   

Thou never unto Saints and Angels prayed,  
Nor mad'st petitions to them in thy need;  
Which whilst they lived, did want our saviours aid,  
Whose sins, as well as ours, did make him bleed;  
And was the cause that stopped his glorious breath  
To ransom them, as well as us, from death.   

Yet will not these proud Pharisees be persuaded,  
But urge traditions, from their fathers taught:  
And have the Gospel through their power invaded,  
And many holy needless relics sought  
Of ancient Saint, and holy men deceased,  
Whereby their great Idolatry's increased.   

If Peter, james, nor john, nor reverent Paul  
Would never suffer, but denied those men  
To offer any sacrifice at all,  
Nor with the smallest worship honour them:  
Why should we think they crave such wondrous odds,  
To be adored, or prayed to now, like gods?   

If that the Angel would not suffer john,  
(Whose brightness made him fall down flat before him,)  
Ascribe no honour, but to God alone,  
Nor with divine prostration to adore him:  
Why should those Saints, which were but sinful men,  
Desire such grace and glory done to them?   

Nor sure they do not, did not superstition  
broach now for doctrine, what true faith envies;  
And by their Romish trash make such Division,  
Which God, Saints, Angels, heaven and all denies;  
Where Christ with them, and they with Christ agree  
To make their prayers t'only none but thee:   

For him hath God the Father sealed true,  
He paid the price, he bought us with his blood;  
Then unto him the debt is only due,  
Which can in human justice be withstood:  
All worship, prayer, praise, and glory too,  
Belongs to him, and more than we can do.   

For there's no precept which that duty binds,  
No law that doctrine found to ratify,  
Unless some false zeal, and affections blind,  
Should broach for truth this error first: for why  
Should not the Prophets, patriarchs, and the rest  
Be prayed unto, which were as highly blest?   

Yes sure, their grace, their merits, and their faith  
Were even as great, as were the great'st of them;  
And had as much praise given (as Scripture saith)  
Which heard, saw, knew, and talked with God like men:  
More love, more grace, more favour who hath known  
To be to any of th'Apostles shown.   

And yet Rome's Tower, proud Babel will withstand,  
And broach their own inventions for pure truth;  
With sweet compounded doctrines held in hand,  
They cunningly beguile unstable youth,  
And do deceive their souls with name of him  
Which did descend from heaven to die for sin.   

Which in the habit come of harmless sheep,  
Yet are most strange devouring wolves within,  
And many holy observations keep,  
To varnish out hypocrisy and sin:  
They seem pure Saints, but look a little further,  
And you shall find, their poison, rapes & murder.   

And yet the heavens their linger vengeance spares  
(Good Lord grant grace unto thy little flock)  
For to discern their frauds, deceits, and snares  
And build our trust on thee, the living Rock,  
That sure and certain ground which never falls  
When theirs shall waste, consume and perish all.   

But thou which buildest upon that corner stone  
Thy faith, whose fruits so evidently appears,  
And mad'st thy soul's desire to him alone,  
Which on his head a crown of thorns did wear:  
Whose unpolluted conscience better tells,  
That truest faith with grace, and virtue dwells.   

And where thou seest with those translucent eyes,  
Thy Sovereign Lord and Saviour crowned in glory,  
Which all the ways of his elected tries  
Through pains, griefs, tears, and sad afflictions story:  
The patiented sufferings of his poor elected,  
Which in this world are vil'st of all respected,   

Thus, worthy Lady, if thy faith was weighed,  
With many Ladies now it would contend  
For crown, and praise, and all their pride upbraid,  
Which makes external honour all their end:  
And glory, in the greatness of their birth,  
Or else their wealth, which is as little worth.   

But thou which honour, praise, and glory sings  
Unto the Father of eternity.  
And to his Son, which such salvation brings,  
Crowning our faiths with immortality:  
Were now translated to that place of rest,  
I'll leave thy faith triumphing with the best.   

And to that virtue which few ladies knows,  
Or at the least will not acknowledge, known,  
Because it loves not pride, nor Courtlike shows,  
But still retires itself to live alone,  
Sequestered from those great resorts of sin,  
Which many spend their youthful glories in.   

Is that rich virtue, Great humility,  
Yet not too great, in great men now adays,  
The only badge of true Gentility;  
If gentle bloods would ponder all her ways,  
And scanned thy worth, or truly find thee out,  
Then Adam's brood would never be so stout.   

Nor would the mighty Monarches tyrannize,  
Nor seek by violence to usurp a crown,  
Nor noble bloods their honours prejudice,  
In treading poor despised Orphans down:  
The quondam Farmer turned a gentle now,  
Would not upon the backs of poor men plow.   

Oppression would not bear so great a hand,  
Nor these Rentraysers rack their tenant's ground,  
Authority would not on such strict terms stand;  
Nor with his grisly looks the weak confound:  
No pride, nor perjuries, fraud, nor glory vain  
Shall haunt thee, when this virtue thou hast gained.   

The key t'unlock the knowledge of the mind,  
That all her imperfections may appear,  
The salve to cure her eyes that were so blind,  
The wholesome balm to heal the deafest ear,  
The sovereign cordial which the heavens affords  
To mortal men, not to be spoke with words.   

Oh thou which makes the heart of man as poor,  
As is the sparrow on the houses top,  
And commend'st him with fear and shame the more,  
When conscience pleads the sins which he forgot:  
A heavy reckoning, did not heaven forgive us,  
And with their grace and mercy great relieve us.   

Thou which pul'dst down the proud aspiring spirit,  
And makes it level with the low estate;  
Confoundest natural pride, wit, strength, and merit,  
An leavest human worth clean desolate:  
Robbest us of power, and works, to build our trust,  
Not in ourselves, but jesus Christ the Just.   

Thou Queen of virtues, and the only guide  
Which leadest this lady to that heavenly road;  
And that mean path so opposite to pride,  
Which in these sinful times but few have trodden:  
The reins, which bridles Nature's power, & tells then  
How vile a sin ambition is, and swells them:   

Thou whose low spirit, meek heart, and humble mind  
Did crown the Conqueress o'er the crown of pride,  
Thou which didst lose these toys, those joys to find,  
And hast thyself, within thyself, denied.  
Hast found by meekness, honour; rest for crosses,  
joys for thy sorrow profit for thy losses.   

So gentle, courteous, affable and kind,  
That most would think it would disgrace their honour,  
If they should bear but such a lowly mind  
And much renown and dignity take from her:  
As not to use that state to her belongs,  
Impair her worth, and noble honour wrongs.   

Why should not persons of the noblest strain  
Their honours use, their state and name uphold?  
Why should they not their glory great maintain,  
As well as their forefathers did of old?  
It is their own, and they were borne unto it,  
Why is it counted pride in them to do it?   

'Tis true great Lady I do know no cause,  
If honour in itself doth live confined:  
Nor breaks not justice, love, nor nature's laws,  
Which savage beasts in some affections bind:  
That hath well learned to know and rule himself,  
Embracing virtue, and contemning pelf.   

But they that glory in their state and greatness,  
And gentle courtesy, count base slavery,  
Which holds the highest pride, but cleanly neatness;  
And their strong Tyranny, brave validity:  
Nor in his nature's found but little good,  
What profit is their in this noble blood?   

What house so famous that did not begin,  
And from most meek and worthy minds proceed?  
Which did at first their brave achivements win,  
From virtues time and honourable deeds:  
If it be so why should not humble spirits  
Possess us still, like glory to inherit?   

But such are the wild customs of these times,  
That virtue is ashamed, herself to know,  
She shall be taxed, she fears for some base ruins,  
If their full power, and grace she public shows:  
Virtue must wear the cloak of vice about her,  
Or else your greatest gallants will but flout her.   

'Tis now dishonour to be honourable,  
And right must now endure a little wrong:  
Truth like the times must change, or be unstable,  
Or else she must but whisper with her tongue:  
Love, pity, charity, if they want, I fear,  
Must get their livinh where they cannot hear.   

Well could thy better guided spirits approve  
To keep a mean gate in an humble path,  
And not to climb those lofty seats above,  
Which many cares and discontentments hath,  
Whereof Dame fortune queen of change doth reign;  
And who she list shall up, then down again.   

But still pure heavens thy honour did preserve,  
Clad in those humble garments Christ did wear,  
From which thy virtuous mind did never serve:  
But still a gentle spirit didst love and bear,  
And never hadst this lesson far to seek,  
Come learn of me that humble am, and meek.   

But hadst both read, and known from the beginning,  
How grace attends the one, and shame the other,  
Greatness, and honours are such spurs to sinning,  
And there's no vice so great, but pride can cover:  
Humility, the first true lesson learns us,  
How we should know ourselves, & best discerns us.   

In thy fair breast this virtue fixed lies,  
Which like a precious jewel doth adorn thee,  
And as a chain those other graces ties,  
Which through the earth with such renown hath borne thee  
With mounting Icarus dost fear no fall,  
Nor yet seeks means to raise thy state at all.   

Great Lady whose rare virtues passing thought,  
And weak imagination can't attain:  
A prize for mortal men too dearly bought,  
And which the Gods themselves can best maintain:  
For who can tell the spirits power that's given,  
From that all powerful power, the king of heaven.   

Thou which didst seek to hide thy honour great,  
Leapt up from fame within our country's arms,  
To keep with us thy residentall seat,  
So fair and sure from high aspiring harms:  
Suppressing by a life retired that guest,  
Which crown's thee with more glory, than the rest.   

No, that true honour which from virtue springs,  
Like to a spark will kindle without blowing,  
Or like a tree which fruit in autumn brings,  
That spite of winter's rage is ever growing,  
And fills the owner's breast with glory store,  
That Kings ne'er knew, nor yet possessed before.   

Whilst those that live in greatest monarchs grace,  
And sit upon the pinnacle of fame,  
That fortune at their pleasure can embrace,  
And think to get a never dying name:  
Have not to half thy praise with all their pains,  
Arrived unto, which thou unsought for gains.   

Thy humble life like to thy Saviour led,  
In greatest greatness meek, in plenty poor  
Did make thy fame renown and honour spread,  
And did increase thy praises more and more,  
That in concealing as the worthiest uses,  
Thy honours grace thee, and more grace infuses.   

Thou didst not bear a lofty scornful eye,  
Nor glory in the greatness of thy state,  
Nor exercise thy mind in things too high:  
But under-valuest what most highly rate,  
And mad'st thy mind, a map for all to see  
The strain of virtue, in gentility.   

Thus did thy humble life in high degree,  
Raise thy unwilling mind to more renown,  
enduing thee with greater dignity,  
Then those that with more worldly pomp were crowned,  
For thine were true, and did from virtue grow,  
Else heaven & earth, would ne'er have graced them so.   

But for her temperance in attire and diet,  
Which show how much she worldly pomp despised,  
And free from that superabounding riot,  
Which is by some to prodigal bloods devised,  
So strict unto herself to others free,  
That gave content in liberality.   

And which did live confined in her estate,  
Not prodigally to waste in surfeits store,  
Nor after such a vild luxurious rate,  
To pamper flesh with cloyed delights the more:  
But kept a better course, and shunned those sins,  
Which curious and delightful appetites brings.   

Whilst some in beastly Epicurism spend,  
And waste their days in vild licentiousness,  
Glutting insatiate tastes, but to offend,  
And make their God their bellies for excess,  
Which eat, & drink, & spend their time like slaves,  
To fatten sin, worms, Satan, and the graves.   

Whilst she did use the means that might procure,  
The least offence that could be given in this,  
No such delicious baits could her allure,  
T'abuse heavens gift in using them amiss;  
But did observe and keep so true a diet,  
As kept her health full, and her soul in quiet.   

What Abstinence hath she used to subdue  
Those causes, & those motions which might tempt her  
To make her prove unto herself untrue,  
Or with the taste of follow could prevent her,  
Oh no who strives that glorious mark to win,  
Must fly the means, as well as fly the sin.   

What man that open lies unto his foes,  
From dangers and disgraces can be free,  
What man that with his enemy's walks and goes,  
That can stand firm, and never conquered be?  
What man that grasps sin in his wanton arms,  
Can free escape, and ne'er be touched with harms?   

Oh no it is too hard for flesh and blood,  
If heavens should us with our own frailties trust,  
We should come short for to perform that good,  
Alas what power and strength doth lie in dust,  
When every wind, blast, tempest, storm, & weather,  
Blows us away far lighter than a feather?   

Good Lady how far was thou blest above us,  
That could so moderate thy affections here:  
Where thy example is enough to move us,  
If any love, zeal, grace and heavenly fear  
Were wrought in this obdurate heart of ours,  
To make us better serve th'eternal powers.   

That civil block not larded with much cost,  
Nor wrought with broadered work most curiously,  
Whereby some have both wealth and credit lost,  
A just reward for thoughts that mount too high,  
Can not surprise, nor in subjection bring,  
Her mind at all to like so vain a thing,   

For well she knew that flesh and blood is apt  
Of it own nature to be proud enough,  
And needs not such enticements to entrap,  
As clothe of Tissue, gold, or richer stuff,  
Which often makes the wearer wondrous proud,  
Though 'tis for Kings, and princes courts allowed.   

Yet for those men that can direct their minds,  
Whose gentle spirits in virtue have been bred,  
And by deserts have unto honour climbed:  
Such costly garments have been given and red.  
But upstarts now have took that glory from her,  
Most imitate the fashion, few the honour.   

But she which for this virtue lives a wonder,  
Lashes not loosely into such extremes:  
But keeps without constraint her greatness under,  
And with her honour and her state dispnese,  
Fitting her habit ever to her mind,  
Most civil, modest, pure of virtues kind.   

She decks not out with gaudy ostentation,  
This earthly substance to be gazed upon,  
No new inventions, and disstinguished fashion,  
These changing times can tempt her to put on:  
But lives alone makes virtue all her gain,  
Despising worldly pomp and glory vain.   

She covets not this popular admiration,  
The which ambitious nations most desire  
Nor makes her glory this world's reputation,  
Which sets the heart of men so much on fire,  
Nor stands on honours, titles, nor renown,  
Whose broken trust hath cast a number down.   〈…〉 

Nor doth she spend her time like some of those,  
In dressing, trimming, varnishing of beauty,  
Wherein too many do such trust repose,  
They clean forget all heavenly love and duty,  
And spend their dearest hours, and sweetest days,  
In flourishing that fair, which soon decay.   

Nay which is worse, a lamentable case,  
Some new complexious and adulterous art;  
They can devise to paint their fading face,  
And help that work which nature doth impart,  
Whose damned inventions seeks to mend that hue,  
Whom heaven at first did make most best and true.   

And pamper up the flesh in all delights,  
And soothe their pleasures, in what they do crave,  
Which in vain studies spend whole days and nights;  
What diet, fashion, and attire to have:  
Consuming half their time in flattering glasses,  
To idolize that which is dust and ashes.   

Which trim, and dress with artificial shapes  
Their painted bodies like to rotten combs,  
And only but for worldy glory gapes,  
As if they sprung not from corrupted wombs,  
But had some privilege both from heaven & nature  
To be adored like Gods, not mottall creatures.   

Whose proud ambitious thoughts do swell so high,  
They think no mortal worthy to come near them,  
But they must crouch or kneel submissively,  
Their looks and greatness makes them so to fear them,  
That scarce a furlongs distance will content them,  
f prostrate duty be not done, and sent them.   

Nay, when they'aue done the best, and all they can,  
If grace, speech, action, doth not well adorn him,  
And rarest gesture, art can give to man,  
they'll hold him for a servile clown, and scorn him,  
His duty and behaviour comes far short,  
To grace such honours as attends the Court.   

Ye glorious heavens to whom all honour's due,  
Ye blind us not to such strict service here  
So that our hearts be firm, upright, and true,  
And your great reverent name doth love and fear:  
These outward duties ye did ne'er require:  
Which greatest bloods, and mightiest men desire.   

Yet there be duties, would but true ones serve them,  
That none in humane justice can deny,  
For to be given to those that best deserve them,  
And keep their thoughts from mounting up too high,  
But if they once abuse them duty flies,  
And flatterers strait do sooth them up with lies.   

What will this age come to, will it not burst  
With vice, and sin, and split itself a sunder,  
Can patiented heavens forbear their lingering curse,  
And not with speedy vengeance quickly thunder:  
Then truth and conscience, justice, love, and pity,  
Fly quickly hence to that eternal city.   

For here is no respect, nor friendship dwelling,  
For any of you clad in poverty,  
It is engrossed quite up by all men's telling,  
Within the closet of eternity,  
Where they do dwell sithence as little worth:  
Till Christ doth come again to judge the earth.   

Art thou a Lady great in birth and honour,  
Art thou of state, rank, means to equal others?  
Then why shouldst thou take any glory from her,  
Or by obscurity thus thy greatness smother:  
Is there a better honour bred within thee,  
That from these worldly honours thus can win thee?   

Yet Lady had thy never ranging eye,  
took but a view of what they might behold,  
How many vanities might they soon descry,  
Which nature needs not, daily to be sold?  
Where more spent far in superfluity,  
Then would some nature in necessity.   

But thou which from these vain delights didst fly,  
And little knows the vices of these times,  
Closed up in one room from society,  
In better studies and in arts divine,  
Didst show thy temperance from all worldly joys,  
And those false baits which many minds annoys.   

Thus didst thou spend thy precious hours and time,  
In reading virtuous and most sacred books,  
And truly serving of the powers divine,  
Nor to these worldly vanities once looks,  
Wherewith thou hadst continual war and strife  
Which crowns thee such a meritorious wife.   

Her senses were not organs unto folly,  
Nor conducts to receive in vanity,  
These outward entrances she kept more holy,  
And not exposed to worldly amity.  
But for heavens zeal, and glory stopped those sluices,  
And bars the passage which might cause abuses.   

Nor did her ears itch after novelties,  
Nor yet inquisitive was in curious matters:  
But ere restrain those powers and faculties,  
From smooth-tongued Gnatoes which are used to flatter,  
Whose whispering tongues if that they once come near them  
Will straight infect them, if they deign to hear them.   

And like to honey drop into their ears,  
That poison which soon swell ambitious spirits,  
That nothing else they do desire to hear,  
But their own praises, honours, worth, and merits,  
And rocked asleep in their security,  
Make themselves equal to the deity.   

Oh had but great men or great princes courts,  
Been free from this how happy had they been?  
Such treasons, massacres, and plots of sundry sorts,  
None had contrived to snare the mighty in,  
They might have stepped securely without fears,  
Had not this ranker crept into their ears,   

Oh snare to honour, stain to noble blood  
Thou great disease, obsequious adulation,  
Which Vulter-like dost feed upon the good,  
And preys upon them in so fair a fashion,  
That thou dost bite by fawning, kill'st by smiling,  
Strangl'st by love, and by most trust beguiling.   

But she which loves not no such Sirens singing,  
Doth tune far better music to her mind,  
And knows those rare contents, & comforts bringing,  
With all those joys which those that prove them find  
Whilst many cares and troubles vexed their spirits,  
Which hunt for praise, and glory vain inherits.   

And waste their bodies and their souls together,  
To compass here this windy blast of praise,  
Which having got they have but caught a feather,  
And like to smoke, and vapours soon decay,  
But those whom truest fame and virtue raises,  
ne'er lulls themselves a sleep with their own praises   

Pardon great Lady my unworthy quill,  
That it should do thy name, and honour wrong.  
And look not to my art, but to my will,  
Which more affords than can be told with tongue:  
What learning wants, let something else supply,  
I know his pitch is for my reach to high.   

She that did live so long, and rule alone,  
And fairly did support her houses fame,  
A widow, wife, and maid, confined in one,  
In all, and several states so free from blame,  
That envy, nor the injurious hand of time,  
Can ever stain, or touch with any crime.   

Her thoughts so continent, and her chaste desires,  
Which never rioted in exppense of time,  
Sprung from those true eternal living fires,  
Which doth all virtue to itself combine  
Not lightly led, nor starting now and then  
To place new fancies in affecting men.   

But truly kept herself unto her love,  
Her worthy love, in youth, in age, in death:  
So constant, faithful, true as turtle dove,  
Where her affections gave no second breath:  
But lived in one pure love, and never changed,  
In thoughts so firmly knit, they never ranged.   

Which for the space of almost thirty years,  
Did rule alone her house admire, d of many,  
Such holy graces in her life appears;  
Such perfect virtues seldom seen in any:  
A virgin, wife, a widow, maid, to be,  
So old in honour, yet from folly free.   

Can not her long deceased spouse before,  
Graced with so many worthy after loves,  
Nor time, nor nature which could argue more,  
Nor any thing from that strict course remove:  
But still her resolution doth persever,  
Inviolate unto the first for ever.   

Why then poor pen dost thou attempt so far,  
And canst not touch the riches of her honour,  
Nor nothing near describe this glorious star:  
But rather much unhidden worth take from her,  
The little world of thy poor wit on fire,  
Will rather burn then satisfy desire.   

Yet give me leave great Readers to admire,  
Fair imitators of her honours worth;  
Although I cannot satisfy desire,  
Nor set her high deserts, and honour forth,  
Accept my will, which must remain your debtor,  
Till time, or heavens shall grace me to sing better.   

She in whose breast, grace such impression took,  
That made her time not like a mortal creature;  
Which honours, state, and dignities forsook,  
A thing most hard and wondrous strange to nature,  
That virtue should be found for to contemn,  
Such means and fortunes, as advanceth them.   

Can grace and virtue natures force expel,  
And break those laws wherein she binds too many▪  
Could heavenly gifts in such a concord dwell,  
So well-beloved within the heart of any:  
That in so many days they should not fall,  
Nor yet be touched with any crime at all.   

Pure-thoughted Lady which preserves thy soul  
So clean from fleshly crimes, and carnal pleasures,  
Nor didst consent unto such actions foul,  
Wherein too many wallow out of measure,  
That inbred sin which never leaves the most,  
Till nature's ready to yield up the ghost.   

One love thy soul delighted, which decease,  
Did live a fresh in the still undivided.  
Two persons joined in one makes no release  
Till both be dead in love so firmly guided,  
Death parts the body, but the soul doth honour,  
In shady groves to meet so true a lover.   

So constant Lady thou which after death,  
In strength of years to no such baits did yield,  
Gains fame a second life, and longer breath,  
Whose steadfast love, on better ground did build,  
Where palms of victory in thy hands are found,  
And laurel wreaths to gird thy temples round.   

Where thou Diana-like didst lead a life,  
In sacred love mixed with most chaste desire,  
Or like those holy vestals void of strife,  
Which keeps their honours spotless, and entire,  
And never looks so true a course they live,  
To those enchantments which the world doth give.   

Where purest love like to the morning dew,  
Sent down from him which all good gifts infuses,  
Enjoys those rare contents given but to few,  
To very few which worldly traffic uses,  
So great and meek, so chaste, and yet a wife,  
For not a mortals, but an Angel's life.   

Which only keeps not from society,  
Thy person free, but quenched those inward fires,  
And from lose thoughts, and vain delights didst fly,  
Hating th'embracements of unchaste desires  
And gave no place to such enticements vain,  
Which proves the owner's loss, the actors pain.   

How canst thou then great Lady all forsake,  
So many thousand baited hopes to see,  
And many great ones little rest to take,  
Whilst thou securely sleeps from dangers free?  
No thy chaste bosom never lusted so,  
To lose a friend for to embrace a foe.   

Thou worthy pattern of this wanton age,  
Whose pure affections dispossesseth sin,  
And acts thy part upon this earthly stage,  
As chaste as she whose love Troy town did win:  
Oh who would wish more honour in this life,  
Then die a virtuous widow, virgin, wife?   

Thou might'st have knit thyself in sacred bands,  
With honourable persons in degree,  
In Hymen's rites uniting hearts and hands,  
And not have wrong this first love being free,  
Oh but thy soul says to thyself alone,  
That faith most firm, that keeps itself to one.   

No friend nor lover since thy bosom smothers,  
But Christ thy Saviour, spouse, and husband dear,  
For whose dear sake thou hast forsook all others,  
How great, or rich so  they lived here;  
And sworn unto thyself, and made a vow  
To serve, love, fear, and keep him only now.   

Oh happy choice, yet man and wife do vary,  
From these pure paths, which unto virtue tends,  
They care not who, nor yet how oft they marry  
For love of lucre, lust, or worldy friends:  
Exchanging oft the better for the worse,  
Who weds a second never loved the first.   

Such soul respects are so engraven in us,  
First beauty, that fair object doth allure us.  
Then mighty friends in state or means doth win us,  
That from ensuing dangers may secure us:  
But last and greatest is wealth, revenues, riches,  
The which the souls of men so much bewiches.   

Long mayst thou live in thy more happier choice,  
That everlasting love which fadeth never,  
Long mayst thou, with that Bridegroom fair rejoice,  
In those triumphing joys which lasteth ever,  
Long mayst thou honour, praise and glory sing,  
Unto the sovereign Lord, the King of Kings.   

Where thy pure thoughts, chaste bosom, virtuous life,  
Weds thy unspotted soul to endless joys:  
Whose love to that great spouse makes a chaste wife,  
And whose rare gifts weak flesh and blood destroys:  
Whose outward honours many equals find,  
But few to match the honour of the mind.   

Why should my striving pen desire to tell,  
What it by force cannot attain to know?  
Why should my will against my skill rebel,  
My passions thus 'gainst reasons laws to show?  
What ardent furies works within my mind,  
To seek for that no wit, nor toil can find?   

Oh give me leave to break off, thou my Muse,  
I cannot dive so deep, I may be drowned,  
Then spare my weakness, and defects excuse,  
Which must retire when it can feel no ground:  
That glorious stream of honour 'tis too deep  
For my weak brain, above the waves to keep.   

But yet her bounty doth invite my pen,  
That virtue which doth challenge praise with best,  
And urges my dull hand to write again,  
Which crowns her with more glory than the rest,  
And makes her name and honour mount the higher  
With such great grace, as makes the world admire.   

Her bounty, Alexander-like, did win  
A general love, and liking of the best;  
Her fame and honour doth but now begin,  
As if no worthy gifts had filled her breast,  
And she had not been fraught with such great store  
Of virtuous parts, in all her life before.   

Hear Fame and Bounty are at strife together,  
Which shall excel each other in their praise;  
Such copious matter both affords, that neither  
I cannot tell her worth, will highest raise:  
Both speaks so well, that I will doubtful leave it.  
Unto the world that better can conceive it.   

Yet in the book of true recording fame,  
Such mighty volumes of her virtues stand,  
Most fairly drawn by ancient time, which came  
Attented with a fair encompassed band  
Of minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years,  
And spoke a speech that ravished human ears.   

I that fell down at that most pleasant spring,  
Make my petition unto aged Time,  
That he would open the book again, and sing  
Those too much blessed words, and crowned lines:  
Whereat he smiled at th' weakness of my brain,  
And said 'twas more than nature could contain.   

For in deep characters here doth lie enrolled  
The famous Arts and memorable deeds  
Of all those worthies which have been of old,  
Which from fair virtues line and stock proceeds:  
The monuments of Fame, which through my hand,  
For rusty age have been forgotten long.   

Where she amongst the rest of honours line,  
Lies surely writ in those eternal scrolls,  
Enrolled in those great monuments divine,  
Which true and everlasting fame in rolls:  
In heavens great storehouse locked, till fatal doom,  
Raises her body from this earthly tomb.   

Where her most bounteous and munificent hand,  
Which never turned unto herself in vain,  
Did more affection in our soil command,  
Then thought can think, or honour can obtain:  
Made friend of foes, and feared love combines  
In those that love, but miserable minds.   

For Bounty is a key that will unlock,  
And mollify the cruel'st dispositions,  
Able for to dissolve the hardest rock,  
And make it flexible to th'mild'st condition:  
For none, I think, so obdurate  have been,  
But bounteous deeds, or liberal gifts could win.   

For 'tis a badge of Christianity,  
A cognizance to know the noble natures,  
The truest touchstone whereby we may try  
The generous race, from base and worldly creatures:  
Whose greedy cares do eat the soul like rust,  
And never leaves, till leave them needs it must.   

This sin of Avarice makes us like to hogs,  
Which roots i'th' earth, and digs i'th' ground for gain,  
And with a thousand fears our conscience clogs,  
Vexing our spirits with long, lean, pining pains:  
Which like a mad consumption wasteth all,  
Both soul and body, for a rising fall.   

That like a vulture, feeds upon the liver,  
And gnaws the entrails like a pining sickness,  
Which, where it once possesses, leaveth never,  
Take the young man i'th' Gospel for a witness:  
For this rank age is much far worse than him  
Which kept the Law, and was not stayed with sin.   

He something had to answer for himself,  
And justify him for this life of ours;  
Had not he been in love with worldly pelf,  
A clearer light shined not in human powers:  
For who can tell that he hath done so well  
As this rich young man, that is gone to hell.   

Oh no, dear heavens, in mercy look upon us,  
One of a thousand cannot say so much,  
Yet do not take thy grace and favour from us,  
Although so pure a life we cannot touch:  
For we renounce ourselves, and trust in thee,  
Out of this mortal toil to set us free.   

Then, noble Bounty, I must needs commend thee,  
If that no other cause were given but this,  
And with more praise, than I can give, commend thee,  
Which had he known, of heaven he could not miss:  
If for one sin, heavens cast this man away,  
What shall we do, that sin thus every day.   

Well may the greatness of this virtue move us,  
And prick us forward, Bounty to embrace,  
Which generally doth make the world to love us,  
But most those men of greatest birth and place:  
If Avarice be so great and vile a sin,  
What praise and glory than shall bounty win.   

Great honours mirror, in whom I do find  
Such rare perfection, that my soul admires it:  
Thy virtues marching in their several kind;  
That those that hears it, more & more desires it:  
And glutted pen doth surfeit with the store  
Of those rich virtues, Ignorance makes poor.   

Her bounteous hand, and great rewarding mind,  
What pen from you, can well the same express,  
As thy true merits, and deserts doth bind,  
And not eclipse the same, and make them less:  
If those that tread the tract of honour true,  
Deserve a golden pen, it falls to you.   

Where though thy soul hath reached eternity,  
And thou art there enrolled in joy and glory:  
Yet give thy servant leave, his wits to try,  
And writ ensuing times this sacred story:  
For heavens decreed such virtues ne'er should die,  
Nor such bright honours taste mortality.   

Yet there be some, whom my concealing pen,  
For brevities, and for manners sake omit  
That carries virtues, or should carry them,  
Which can themselves, and virtue too forget,  
And can, since honours hand did them prefer,  
Take ease and pleasure, and not think of her.   

Whose power as weak, as others were before,  
Now fully fed, can swell, and keep no bounds,  
And most insatiate, covet more and more,  
That should not be in art and learning found:  
Which once for half that means would humbly bow,  
Where having all, are not contented now.   

Yet, bounteous Lady, let not this thing grieve thee,  
That Benefactors are so ill respected,  
But let thy innocence in this cause relieve thee;  
Christ had but twelve, yet was by one neglected:  
If one from him, needs more must fall from thee,  
Which being once dead, their loyalties cannot see.   

'Tis our corruptions that is bred within us,  
Which is the cause of this, and hath been ever;  
And present profit hath such power to win us,  
That dead and gone, we strait forget the giver:  
And few remembers good turns past and gone,  
Where such great persons natural glass is run.   

Can I collect together, in one sum,  
A record of the honourable deeds,  
Of all those gifts bestowed, and favours done,  
Which from her free and bounteous minds proceeds:  
Then should I to small purpose spend my days  
In writing that which hath no end of praise.   

What bounds or limits hath her honour known,  
Or who can sound so deep, or well declare her,  
When those fair wings, she flies with, are her own,  
Which to that mighty height of fame did rear her:  
I need not add unto the Ocean more,  
What is one drop unto such wondrous store?   

Alas, great Lady, thou hast little need  
Of my harsh tongue to praise thy bounty so;  
In every place thy fame as well doth speed,  
And better too, than I have power to show:  
Thy worth by me no more disgrace endures,  
Then Sun, when clouds her glorious light obscures.   

No, Honourable Lady, know thyself,  
Although I cannot pay thee half thy due,  
But tossed am upon misfortune shelf,  
And cannot sing thy honours full, nor true:  
Yet from these ashes may a Phoenix spring,  
When they have heard thy worth and better sing.   

Then take this virtue now into thy hand,  
My feeble spirits begin for to retire;  
Such power thy virtues have, they can withstand  
A better pen, and bid my thoughts admire,  
And glory in the subject, not my Muse,  
Which can more faults than I have done excuse.   

Yet give me leave a little to proceed,  
And some more graces of her mind discover;  
My fond affection, in this vain to feed,  
One virtue still, you see, calls in another:  
Where though I do begin, and speak of many,  
Yet can I find no end of praising any.   

Thy hospitality did as much renown thee,  
As cannot be by mortal tongues expressed;  
And with as great deserts and praises crown thee,  
Filling thee with more glory than the rest:  
And brings thee forth upon this stage to show thee  
What thy deserts and their affections own thee.   

Thy speaking praise from Cottage to the Throne,  
Attend thee, Lady, with no common glory;  
Thy bounteous deeds so spread abroad and known,  
Writes in men's hearts thy never dying story;  
Where it shall live passed all succeeding ages,  
As willing pen and virtue true presages.   

Thy bounteous table kept, who may declare,  
Or greatness of thy hospitality,  
Whose liberal mind no cost at all doth spare,  
To grace thy honour with more dignity?  
Where overwhelmed with affections store,  
She to her friends thinks greatest bounty poor.   

What long enduring house hath honour kept,  
And with thy bounteous cheer, and wondrous store  
Fed many mouths; whilst some have basely slept  
In Mammon's arms, still coveting more and more:  
Snorting in mines of gold, feeding their souls  
With that, the best, and worthiest minds controls.   

Which loves to hear the fall of honour true,  
And envy those rare gifts they do possess;  
Detracting those which bounteous deeds ensue,  
And yet these slaves will creep and be their guests;  
To all those famous houses, which they hear  
Do keep up bounty, and maintain good cheer.   

Whilst they do scrape and glean, what they can get  
From Bounty's hands, and liberal dispositions,  
Which ne'er a good house kept themselves as yet,  
Nor ne'er will do, so base are their conditions:  
If they can creep but into honours favours,  
they'll feed and burst upon another's labours.   

Thus from great persons free, and bounteous tables,  
They heap up wealth by wretched misery,  
And make their heirs so strong in means, and able;  
That in the compass of gentility  
They must be drawn and honoured of some men,  
Although their fathers basely begged for them.   

I do not urge this, most renowned Lady,  
Though many men have bettered been by thee,  
To aim or point at any thing, that may be  
Thought prejudicial to thy dignity:  
But as thou art most liberal, free and kind,  
So to express the bounty of thy mind.   

Now can the City, Country, and the Court,  
Whose ears have heard of thy dispersed fame,  
Unto thy Princely Palace make resort,  
And fill their thoughts with thy admired name:  
Where hearts, eyes, ears, and all desires to prove  
The great magnificence of thy grace and love.   

With courteous, kind, and honoured dispositions,  
Such as is wont in noble breasts to dwell,  
Thou entertains great births, and fair conditions  
With such rare grace and gestures as excel:  
No wise conceits, nor curious Artist found,  
But for thy courteous grace thy praises found.   

No worthy Lady, of the noblest strain,  
Which for her parts and wisdom was divine;  
But thou with bounteous hand didst entertain  
And show thyself as free as Caesar's mind:  
Whose salutations were as fairly dressed,  
And powdered with the wisdom of the best.   

Hear greatness doth another greatness grace;  
Love meets with love, here honour, honour kisses;  
Hear noble minds each other do embrace,  
Nought to make up such sweet contentment misses:  
So fair a troop of worthy persons meeting,  
But few have seen in such great honour greeting.   

Here liberal Ceres plays no niggards part,  
Here Heaven, earth, Seas their greatest plenty brings,  
Here Bacchus cheers the melancholy heart,  
Whilst a learned consort of sweet Music sings:  
A feast that did more sumptuous cost afford,  
Then Cleopatra did that noble Lord.   

Who hath been famed for hospitality,  
That hath not ranked her name among the rest?  
Who have for bounty and for dignity  
Admired been, and left her unexprest?  
Who hath a worthier house kept all her days  
Then she hath done, and lived in greater praise?   

No, Lady, though our Shire did thee contain,  
Yet are thy honours and thy bounty spread;  
And can as great a share and glory claim,  
As theirs can do, and grace thee being dead:  
With true deserving fame, for ever blest,  
To equal Pellam, Ramsey, and the rest.   

No niggards hand, nor greedy gain did hold her,  
The noblest minds are not in love with riches,  
Nor have her virtues for such trifles sold her,  
Though many great ones powerful gold bewitches:  
But what means here the heavens her freely lent,  
She wasteth nor, though liberally she spent.   

But to a better end and purpose used them,  
The hungry members of our Lord to feed,  
And not in such disordered sort abused them,  
But helped the weak afflicted in their need  
With joseph, to refresh the brethren poor,  
Which stands and waits for charity at the door.   

Her yearning pity did so far extend,  
That deep compassion she did on them take,  
And in their great necessities did befriend  
Their souls and bodies for mere charity's sake:  
With gifts and good rewards she did supply  
Their extreme wants, and saved them like to die.   

How many hath she eased of Lazars crew,  
The poorest members of our dying Lord,  
Whose great distress the kindest natures rue,  
Tossed to and fro, and in this world abhorred:  
Despised and made a scorn of every eye,  
Which doth behold their woe and misery.   

Thus do they show from whence they are descended,  
From that old serpent their adopted father,  
Which never will, nor ever have extended  
The least relief, as Dives crumbs to gather;  
His dogs were kinder for to lick his sores,  
Then men are now, which beats them from their doors.   

But thou, great Lady, wherein virtue rested,  
Didst daily feed them at thy bounteous gate,  
And the poor members of Christ's flock hast feasted,  
Comiserating here their woeful state,  
Which nothing have in this world to relieve them,  
But what such liberal minds as yours doth give them.   

Poor naked worms which feel the sharpest air,  
Which wants food, cloth, and home, which many have,  
What is here left to keep ye from despair,  
When all your hopes and comforts are the grave:  
And if it were not for some worthy minds,  
Your souls would faint and die before your times.   

But thou, most true devoted Lady, gives  
Both cloth, food, harbour, to such orphans poor,  
And helpest those which in extremities live,  
And ne'er expulsed the needy from thy door:  
But at the point of death their souls did cherish,  
And saved those lives which ready were to perish.   

Thus did thy faith bear sweet and pleasant fruits,  
Which ever from that flourishing tree proceeds,  
With such rich graces, as best honour suits,  
And did extend itself to bounteous deeds:  
Relieving cheerfully those silly elves,  
Which had no means here for to help themselves.   

Thou fair example live without compare,  
Thou map of honour be for ever blest,  
Since to the poor such pity thou dost bear,  
Which meaner persons in their pride detest,  
And dost extend thy hand to help their need,  
Whilst their fell cruelties make their hearts to bleed.   

Nay not contented thus, thou lefts behind,  
As long as any age or time endures,  
A fair example of thy bounteous mind,  
Which shall for ever stand most firm and sure,  
Where thou hast means, and living left in store,  
To help the helpless, and relieve the poor.   

Can I but reckon what her honour gave,  
Or what a number at her gate she fed;  
How many needy wretches lives she saved,  
For want of food half pined and almost dead,  
The sum I fear would grow so wondrous large,  
And far extend my weakness to discharge.   

No 'tis not to be told with any tongue,  
Those great accounts my pen must let alone,  
Unless attempting I should do her wrong,  
To take away from her what is her own,  
For numberless they are, and so I'll leave them,  
Where endless joys for endless good receive them.   

For what she gave to those, she lent to him,  
Which will repaid again unto a penny:  
She shall not lose by that she knows, but win,  
And crowned be in heaven, with joys as many,  
Where double recompense she shall surely have,  
And thousand fold more find then here she gave,   

Her goods possessing she did not possess  
But made them free for others which did need them,  
They were not hers she often would confess:  
But lent her to refresh the poor, and feed them,  
Where she as tenant held from his great hands,  
All that she did possess, both goods and lands.   

And knew right well that she account must give,  
Of all those rich demeans she here enjoyed,  
And in so great a calling how she live,  
Unto what use her Talon was employed,  
Where now with that good servant she doth find,  
Her master's joy and ten times more assigned.   

Oh Lady why do I this virtue urge,  
So much in thee and cannot find in others,  
Art thou alone unto these times a scourge,  
To whip their dullness forward, and discover?  
Those monstrous wolves which never will be fed,  
But eat up poorest Orphans like to bred.   

Religion is the cause of this I hold,  
That to good works will not ascribe salvation,  
Which makes our age in charity grow so cold,  
As few will give because 'tis out of fashion,  
Then let our works be meritorious found,  
It may be then more charity will abound.   

Thus doth this topsy-turvy age delight  
In contraries, and leaves the good undone,  
Wrong hath the upper hand of truth and right,  
And every man to swift perdition runs:  
If this salvation were, as none it is,  
Who would be damned then that should do amiss?   

But, world, thy share will come far short, I fear,  
For vain's that hope, whose faith brings forth no fruit,  
Nor shows itself in virtuous actions here,  
What's better for a tongue if one be mute:  
Or for that rise which breeds a greater fall,  
Or for that faith which shows no works at all.   

Good Lady, thou which didst possess so much,  
And spent'st so little upon idle pleasure;  
How far dost thou digress from these I touch,  
And seek to store thy soul with better treasures?  
Those secret graces which the heavens impart  
To such as be upright, and true of heart.   

Where zeal, grace, faith, love, hope and piety,  
Concur in one to make a blessed soul;  
Where temperance, bounty, and humility,  
Do all foul Vice, and errors false control:  
Where her renowned hospitality,  
Makes her most happy, joined with charity.   

Where with that worthy Captain well she speeds,  
Nor fears she death, that freely is forgiven;  
Her prayers, gifts, rewards, and almesdeeds,  
Are now remembered in the sight of heaven:  
Where she doth hear the voice of him she loved,  
Which hath her faith through such affliction proved.   

And where her works, and deeds, and virtues all,  
Attends her after this expired breath,  
And did not suffer her great name to fall  
Into oblivion, by forgetful death:  
But breaks those prison doors, and sweetly sings,  
Hell, where's thy victory? Death, where's thy sting?   

Thou fore-decreed by that eternal doom,  
A sacred vessel of most free election,  
A mark of piety to the times to come,  
Sealed with heavens finger at thy first conception:  
Graced with his grace, which doth all grace secure,  
Which time consumes not, but doth still endure.   

Look when as Titan from his scarlet bed  
Doth rise, and all thick vapours drive away,  
And all the curtains of the heavens are spread,  
Without a cloud to blemish any way,  
Where that bright frame to mortals doth appear  
Most wondrous calm, most perfect, fair & clear.   

Even so this rising Sun of honour shines,  
The hopeful sign of a most glorious day,  
And all the graces firmly so combines,  
That mists, nor clouds, nor vapours can dismay:  
This fair unblemished frame keeps still true honour,  
Which Time, Death, Fortune, never shall take from her.   

What man so great in pomp and earthly glory,  
That hunts full cry with hungry breath for fame,  
Can write ensuing sins a fairer story,  
Or win more honour, or a grater name:  
Or graces be with more deserts and praise,  
Then she had been so truly all her days.   

Those that in the full circuit ride of pride,  
Lived in a world of eyes for to behold them:  
Haddit what this earth could grace them with beside,  
And at the highest rise of fame hath sold them:  
Made all their words and deeds like Herod's then,  
Which cried the voice of God, and not of men.   

Yet in the midst of all their pride deceived,  
Have brought their honour to untimely ends,  
And of their golden hopes have been bereaved,  
Which with the world would die such mighty friends.  
Their mistress with vae vobis leaves them all,  
When they do least dream, and suspect to fall.   

But they which build their house one virtues ground,  
And lead that life which thou before hast done,  
No age no fortune ever shall confound,  
Their honours when their natural glass is run,  
But they shall flourish fair and still survive.  
Death takes not them like those which die, alive.   

Thus having loosed these earthly fetters here,  
That heavy bondage worse than Egypt's thrall,  
And overcome by faith those doubts and fears,  
Which greves the best, and doth in question call,  
Our lives and deeds with many frailties shaken:  
How shall we stand when such strict reckonings taken?   

But fly to the heavens true and only son,  
Dear Saviour and redeemer whose strong might,  
Didst that huge black internal host o'ercome,  
And put those powers, and enemies all to flight.  
That conquerest quite, hell, sathan, death, and sin,  
Which none before, nor since could ever win.   

And open sets the door t'eternall life,  
Freed us from all our enemies by thy death;  
Although we suffer toil, cares, grief, and strife,  
Within ourselves during this mortal breath:  
Yet when thou thinkest good thou wilt enlarge us,  
And of our weary, heavy load discharge us.   

Whereof being freed, and set at liberty,  
Thou endless joys for ending grief embracest,  
And diest no more but liv'st eternally,  
With him from whom thou hast been ever graced,  
Where now enjoying what thou wantedst here,  
Thou singest Halluiah with that heavenly choir.   

Where, now unto that glory I will leave thee,  
That true felicity, and eternal rest,  
Which like to earthly joys, will not deceive thee,  
But still endure effectual and ere blest,  
Triumphing with those Saints which ever sings,  
All praise and glory to the King of Kings.   

Here noble Lord some virtues of your own,  
May in this dark, and little glass appear,  
Or of that seed which you yourself are sown,  
Which cannot (like your honours) shine so clear,  
Yet may you see some shadow of your favour,  
If that you truly do but read my labour.   

For in this little book I have not erred,  
Although her honours worth I could not wield,  
Nor vice before true virtue have preferred,  
Nor yet on such false slippery grounds do build,  
As grace a sin by a dissembling tongue,  
To do the best, and noblest natures wrong.   

No let me never rise but rather fall,  
If lower than I am I can descend,  
When ever I take vices part at all,  
Or aim at any such vain hopes or end,  
But rather study virtuously to please,  
Then have my duty sick of that disease.   

No, worthy Lord, I'll never sell myself,  
Though I should be far poorer than I am,  
By unjust means to purchase worldly pelf,  
As soothe up folly in the greatest man:  
That gain is loss, that glory turns to shame,  
Which branded is with Gnato's flattering name.   

Then let not honour judge my lives amiss,  
Although your judgement far extends my verse,  
My duty's true, and so shall prove by this,  
Which I unworthy far, have here rehearsed:  
If I in aught through weakness have offended,  
Let greatness by their fair acceptance mend it.   

For I do know two noble natures springing,  
From one pure fountain cannot be divided;  
What wrong to her, to you some blot is bringing,  
Which cannot be but by your worth decided:  
For you that do succeed her room and place,  
Are heir unto her virtues and her grace.   

Whose fair example happy you may prove,  
And like a greater light the lesser guide,  
Adorned with honour, glory, grace and love,  
And blest with all these earthly things beside:  
That wanting nought to fill up either's store,  
Your honour still may flourish more and more.   

Who takes a pattern of his glorious maker,  
And seeks to tread the tract of honour true,  
Cannot at first be made a full partaker  
Of all those rich demeans, to honour due:  
Such fair examples must have time and space  
To overtake them, 'tis no common race.   

Which she, true virtues pattern, left behind,  
Much like a marble pillar unremoved,  
Such tokens of her honourable mind,  
As make her here generally beloved:  
Whereof when you shall take a fuller view,  
Shall find those honours fall to th'house and you.   

Where I do pray that heavens would grace it still,  
With as great honour as it had before;  
Or greater, if it be his blessed will,  
Until the surges overflow the shore:  
That Wentworths' noble race with Cheavies name,  
May be enrolled in everlasting fame.   

And you, fair Lady, graced with Nature's gifts,  
And with a spirit that hath true virtue in it;  
Which my dejected Muse from sorrows lifts,  
And hath more power, than others have to win it:  
Bound with a duty which must not be broken,  
Given at my first conception for a token.   

You the true Image of that Lady great,  
For virtue and an honourable mind,  
Of whom for your fair worth I would entreat,  
More than affection doth in others bind:  
To whom I own more than you deign to crave,  
Love, service, duty, life and all I have.   

A present all too mean if 'twere far better,  
In one whom meanness, meanness doth excel,  
To whom I must and will remain a debtor;  
A debtor great, how great I cannot tell:  
Whose many favours showed to friends and me,  
Lies hid within, that cannot uttered be.   

What shall I give, that nothing have to pay,  
The widows mite will not pass currant now,  
That metal's grown nought with us now adays,  
Nor is it for true currant pay allowed.  
Yet where there's nothing to be had you find,  
Accept, good Lady, of a grateful mind.   

This work to your pure mind I do present,  
This honours prize unto thy judgement sound;  
Where if for any fault I should be shent,  
Let some defence in thee be had and found:  
Lest if some tempest should arise too fast,  
I should be shipracked, or in danger cast.   

For well I know you loved her honour living,  
Entirely so, as pen cannot declare,  
And after death in true affections giving,  
Didst love and zeal still to her honour bear:  
Then for her sake let these some favour find,  
That was herself so courteous, free and kind.   

Good Lady, which her life hast seen and known,  
And all her virtues and her honours proved,  
To whom her thoughts, and counsels all were shown,  
So much was you, and she of you beloved:  
Can better tell what store of virtues lie  
Hid in her breast, which no man can descry.   

I do but add a drop unto the sea,  
For who can comprehend in any bounds  
Her honour 'tis but labour cast away,  
To find out that, which is not to be found:  
But as a spark is to a mighty fire,  
So must I yield and value my desire.   

And though her modest blushes will not let her,  
Her virtues prize, nor take what is her own,  
Nor with that true deserving praise beset her,  
Which to the world is blazed so much and known:  
Yet shall her virtues in their force abide,  
Which through her modest vail she sought to hide.   

For what can heart desire, she hath not found?  
If wealth or riches she hath not least store,  
If fame or praise, her name with that doth sound,  
If honour, who, for her estate, had more?  
If with long life, or length of days and time,  
Who longer lived, whose honour more did shine?   

If with the gifts or graces of the mind,  
Who with her almost now may well compare,  
Or hath had more, or better been inclined,  
Which kept her virtues with the fairest fair:  
And like that praise, which Scriptures David gave,  
Brought good old age and honour to her grave?   

Thus in this little volume may you read,  
Some virtues of her honourable mind,  
Some of her merits, worthy parts and deeds,  
For all it is unpossible to find  
Unless that I should out of nature dwell,  
And learn such notes, which human notes excel.   

Thus hoping of your gracious censures all,  
I leave ye to that everlasting bliss,  
'Twas fate, not wit, which to this task did call  
My meaner spirits, and raised my mind to this:  
If aught miscarries blame not my intent,  
For what is rudely sung, is better meant.   

To which pure, sacred, blessed Trinity,  
Which rules unseen all things for th'best above us,  
Those Persons three enclosed i'th' unity;  
A wonder strange, yet not so strange to love us:  
Being such sinners 'gainst his laws rebelling,  
Past all the tongues of men and Angels telling;  
To him in all and unto all in one.  
Be all praise, power and glory given alone.   
FINIS.