Of causes, secrets, Councels; to suruay
The wits of men, their heats, their colds, their rage,
That build, destroy, praise, hate, say and gaine say;
Beleeue, and vnbeleeue, all in one age.
And shall we trust goodnesse as it proceedes
From that vnconstant mouth; which with one breath
Will make it bad againe, vnlesse it feedes
The present humor that it fauoreth?
Shall we esteeme and reckon how it heedes
Our works, that his own vowes vnholloweth?
Then whereto serues it to haue been inlarg'd
With this free manumission of the mind,
If for all that we still continue charg'd
With those discouered errors, which we find?
As if our knowledge only were discharg'd,
Yet we our selues staid in a seruile kind.
That virtue must be out of countenance,
If this grosse spirit, or that weake shallow brain,
Or this nice wit, or that distemperance,
Neglect, distast, vncomprehend, disdaine;
When such sicke eies, can neuer cast a glance
But through the colours of their proper staine.
Though I must needs confesse the small respect,
That these great-seeming best of men do giue,
(Whose brow begets th' inferior sorts neglect,)
Might moue the weake irresolute to grieue: