Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

To the Countesse of Bedford.

T'Have written then, when you writ, seem'd to mee Worst of spirituall vices, Simony, And not t'have written then, seemes little lesse Then worst of civill vices, thanklessenesse. In this, my doubt I seem'd loath to confesse, In that, I seem'd to shunne beholdingnesse. But 'tis not soe, nothing, as I am, may, Pay all they have, and yet have all to pay. Such borrow in their payments, and owe more By having leave to write so, then before. Yet since rich mines in barren grounds are showne, May not I yeeld (not gold) but coale or stone? Temples were not demolish'd, though prophane: Here Peter Ioves, there Paul have Dian's Fane. So whether my hymnes you admit or chuse, In me you'have hallowed a Pagan Muse,

And denizend a stranger, who mistaught By blamers of the times they mard, hath sought Vertues in corners, which now bravely doe Shine in the worlds best part, or all, in you. I have beene told, that vertue'in Courtiers hearts Suffers an Ostracisme, and departs. Profit, ease, fitnesse, plenty, bid it goe, But whither, only knowing you, I know; Your, or you vertue, two vast uses serves, It ransomes one sex, and one Court preserves; There's nothing but your worth, which being true, Is knowne to any other, not to you. And you can never know it; To admit No knowledge of your worth, it some of it. But since to you, your praises discords bee, Stop others ills, to meditate with mee. Oh! to confesse wee know not what we sould, Is halfe excuse, wee know not what we would. Lightnesse depresseth us, emptinesse fills, We sweat and faint, yet still goe downe the hills; As new Philosophy arrests the Sunne, And bids the passive earth about it runne, So wee have dull'd our minde, it hath no ends; Onely the bodie's busie, and pretends; As dead low earth ecclipses and controules The quick high Moone: so doth the body, Soules. In none but us, are such mixt engines found, As hands of double office: For, the ground We till with them; and them to heav'n wee raise; Who prayer-lesse labours, or, without this, prayes,

Doth but one halfe, that's none; He which said, Plough And looke not back, to looke up doth allow. Good sced degenerates, and oft obeyes The soyles disease, and into cockle strayes. Let the minds thoughts be but transplanted so, Into the body, 'and bastardly they grow. What hate could hurt our bodies like our love? Wee but no forraigne tyrans could remove, These not ingrav'd, but inborne dignities Caskets of soules; Temples, and Palaces: For, bodies shall from death redeemed bee, Soules but preserv'd, not naturally free; As men to'our prisons, new soules to us are sent, Which learne it there, and come in innocent. First seeds of every creature are in us, What ere the world hath bad, or pretious, Mans body can produce, hence hath it beene That stones, wormes, frogges, and snakes in man are seene: But who ere saw, though nature can worke soe, That, pearle, or gold, or corne in man did grow. We'have added to the world Virginia, 'and sent Two new starres lately to the firmament; Why grudge wee us (not heaven) the dignity T'increase with ours, those faire soules company. But I must end this letter, though it doe Stand on two truths, neither is true to you. Vertue hath some perversenesse; For she will Neither beleeve her good, nor others ill, Even in your vertues best paradise, Vertue hath some, but wise degrees of vice.

Too many vertues, or too much of one Begets in you unjust suspition. And ignorance of vice, makes vertue lesse, Quenching compassion of our wrechednesse. But these are riddles; Some aspersion Of vice becomes well some complexion. Statesmen purge vice with vice, and may corrode The bad with bad, a spider with a toad: For so, ill thralls not them, but they tame ill And make her do much good against her will, But in your Commonwealth or world in you Vice hath no office, or good worke to doe. Take then no vitious purge, but be content With cordiall vertue, your knowne nourishment.