To the Countess of Bedford

MADAM—
Reason is our soul’s left hand, faith her right;

By these we reach divinity, that’s you;

Their loves, who have the blessing of your light,

Grew from their reason; mine from fair faith grew.

But as, although a squint left-handedness

Be ungracious, yet we cannot want that hand;

So would I—not to increase, but to express

My faith—as I believe, so understand.

Therefore I study you first in your saints,

Those friends whom your election glorifies;

Then in your deeds, accesses and restraints,

And what you read, and what yourself devise.

But soon the reasons why you’re loved by all,

Grow infinite, and so pass reason’s reach;

Then back again to implicit faith I fall,

And rest on that the Catholic voice doth teach—

That you are good; and not one heretic

Denies it; if he did, yet you are so;

For rocks, which high to sense deep-rooted stick,

Waves wash, not undermine, nor overthrow.

In everything there naturally grows

A balsamum to keep it fresh and new,

If ’twere not injured by extrinsic blows;

Your birth and beauty are this balm in you.

But you, of learning, and religion,

And virtue, and such ingredients, have made

A mithridate, whose operation

Keeps off, or cures, what can be done or said.

Yet this is not your physic, but your food,

A diet fit for you; for you are here

The first good angel, since the world’s frame stood,

That ever did in woman’s shape appear.

Since you are then God’s masterpiece, and so

His factor for our loves, do as you do;

Make your return home gracious, and bestow

This life on that; so make one life of two.

For, so God help me, I would not miss you there,

For all the good which you can do me here.