To the Countess of Bedford

Begun in France, but never perfected

THOUGH I be dead and buried, yet I have

—Living in you—court enough in my grave.

As oft as there I think myself to be,

So many resurrections waken me.

That thankfulness, your favours have begot

In me, embalms me, that I do not rot.

This season, as ’tis Easter, as ’tis spring,

Must both to growth and to confession bring

My thoughts, disposed unto your influence; so

These verses bud, so these confessions grow.

First I confess I have to others lent

Your stock, and over-prodigally spent

Your treasure, for since I had never known

Virtue or beauty, but as they are grown

In you, I should not think or say they shine,

—So as I have—in any other mine.

Next I confess this my confession,

For ’tis some fault this much to touch upon

Your praise to you, where half rights seem too much,

And make your mind’s sincere complexion blush.

Next I confess my impenitence, for I

Can scarce repent my first fault, since thereby

Remote low spirits, which shall ne’er read you,

May in less lessons find enough to do,

By studying copies, not originals.

Desunt Cætera.