To the Countess of Bedford [To have written then, when you writ, seem'd to me ...]

To have written then, when you writ, seem'd to meWorst of spiritual vices, simony ;And not to have written then seems little lessThan worst of civil vices, thanklessness.In this, my debt I seem'd loth to confess ;In that, I seem'd to shun beholdingness.But 'tis not so ; nothings, as I am, mayPay all they have, and yet have all to pay.Such borrow in their payments, and owe moreBy having leave to write so, than before.Yet, since rich mines in barren grounds are shown,May not I yield (not gold but) coal or stone ?Temples were not demolish'd, though profane ;Here Peter Jove's; there Paul hath Dian's fane.So whether my hymns you admit or choose,In me you've hallowed a pagan muse,And denizen'd a stranger, who, mistaughtBy blamers of the times they marr'd, hath soughtVirtues in corners, which now bravelv doShine in the world's best part, or all it-you.I have been told, that virtue in courtiers' heartsSuffers an ostracism, and departs.Profit, ease, fitness, plenty, bid it go ;But whither, only knowing you, I know.Your (or you) virtue, two vast uses serves ;It ransoms one sex, and one court preserves.There's nothing but your worth, which being trueIs known to any other, not to you.And you can never know it ; to admitNo knowledge of your worth, is some of it. But since to you your praises discords be,Stoop others' ills to meditate with me.O ! to confess we know not what we should,Is half excuse, we know not what we would.Lightness depresseth us, emptiness fills ;We sweat and faint, yet still go down the hills.As new philosophy arrests the sun,And bids the passive earth about it run,So we have dull'd our mind ; it hath no ends ;Only the body's busy, and pretends.As dead low earth eclipses and controlsThe quick high moon, so doth the body souls.In none but us are such mix'd engines found,As hands of double office ; for the groundWe till with them, and them to heaven we raise.Who prayerless labours, or, without this, prays,Doth but one half, that's none; He which said, "PloughAnd look not back,." to look up doth allow.Good seed degenerates, and oft obeysThe soil's disease, and into cockle strays.Let the mind's thoughts be but transplanted soInto the body, and bastardly they grow.What hate could hurt our bodies like our love ?We, but no foreign tyrants, could removeThese not engraved, but inborn dignities,Caskets of souls, temples and palaces ;For bodies shall from death redeemed be,Souls but preserved, born naturally free.As men to our prisons now, souls to us are sent,Which learn vice there, and come in innocent.First seeds of every creature are in us ;Whate'er the world hath bad, or precious,Man's body can produce ; hence hath it beenThat stones, worms, frogs, and snakes in man are seen.But whoe'er saw, though nature can work so,That pearl, or gold, or corn in man did grow ?We've added to the world Virginia, and sentTwo new stars lately to the firmament.Why grudge we us (not heaven) the dignityTo increase with ours those fair souls' company ? But I must end this letter; though it doStand on two truths, neither is true to you.Virtue has some perverseness, for she willNeither believe her good, nor others' ill.Even in you, virtue's best paradise,Virtue hath some, but wise degrees of vice.Too many virtues, or too much of one,Begets in you unjust suspicion ;And ignorance of vice makes virtue less,Quenching compassion of our wretchedness.But these are riddles ; some aspersionOf vice becomes well some complexion.Statesmen purge vice with vice, and may corrodeThe 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 work to do.Take then no vicious purge, but be contentWith cordial virtue, your known nourishment.