To Mr. Rowland Woodward

LIKE one who in her third widowhood doth profess

Herself a nun, tied to retiredness,

So affects my Muse, now, a chaste fallowness.

Since she to few, yet to too many hath shown,

How love-song weeds and satiric thorns are grown,

Where seeds of better arts were early sown;

Though to use and love poetry, to me,

Betroth’d to no one art, be no adultery;

Omissions of good, ill, as ill deeds be.

For though to us it seem but light and thin,

Yet in those faithful scales, where God throws in

Men’s works, vanity weighs as much as sin.

If our souls have stain’d their first white, yet we

May clothe them with faith, and dear honesty,

Which God imputes as native purity.

There is no virtue but religion.

Wise, valiant, sober, just, are names which none

Want, which want not vice-covering discretion.

Seek we then ourselves in ourselves; for as

Men force the sun with much more force to pass,

By gathering his beams with a crystal glass,

So we—if we into ourselves will turn,

Blowing our spark of virtue—may out-burn

The straw which doth about our hearts sojourn.

You know physicians, when they would infuse

Into any oil the souls of simples, use

Places, where they may lie still warm, to choose.

So works retiredness in us. To roam

Giddily and be everywhere, but at home,

Such freedom doth a banishment become.

We are but farmers of ourselves, yet may,

If we can stock ourselves, and thrive, uplay

Much, much dear treasure for the great rent day.

Manure thyself then, to thyself be improved;

And with vain outward things be no more moved,

But to know that I love thee and would be loved.