Classic Poem

To the Right Honourable, the Lady , E.P.

Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time,
On th' humble fate; which censures it a crime;
To be by vertue ruin'd. For I know
Y'are not so various as to ebbe and flow
Ith' streame of fortune, whom each faithlesse winde
Distracts, and they who made her, fram'd her blinde.
Possession makes us poore. Should we obtaine
All those bright jems, for which ith' wealthy Maine,
The tann'd slave dives; or in one boundlesse chest
Imprison all the treasures of the West,
We still should want. Our better part's immence,
Not like th' inferiour, limited by sence.
Rich with a little, mutuall love can lift
Vs to a greatnesse, whither chance nor thrift
E're rais'd her servants. For though all were spent,
That can create a Europe in content.
Thus (Madam) when Castara lends an eare
Soft to my hope, I Loves Philosopher,
Winne on her faith. For when I wondring stand
At th' intermingled beauty of her hand,
(Higher I dare not gaze) to this bright veine
I not ascribe the blood of Charlemaine
Deriv'd by you to her. Or say there are
In that and th' other Marmion, Rosse , and Parr
Fitzhugh, Saint Quintin , and the rest of them
That adde such lustre to great Pembrokes stem.
My love is envious. Would Castara were
The daughter of some mountaine cottager
Who with his toile worne out, could dying leave
Her no more dowre, then what she did receive
From bounteous nature. Her would I then lead
To th' Temple, rich in her owne wealth: her head
Crown'd with her haires faire treasure; diamonds in
Her brighter eyes; soft Ermines in her skin;
Each Indie in each cheeke. Then all who vaunt,
That fortune, them t' enrich, made others want,
Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,
And trie if that, could parallel this wealth.

To the Right Honourable, the Lady , E.P.

Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time,
On th' humble fate; which censures it a crime;
To be by vertue ruin'd. For I know
Y'are not so various as to ebbe and flow
Ith' streame of fortune, whom each faithlesse winde
Distracts, and they who made her, fram'd her blinde.
Possession makes us poore. Should we obtaine
All those bright jems, for which ith' wealthy Maine,
The tann'd slave dives; or in one boundlesse chest
Imprison all the treasures of the West,
We still should want. Our better part's immence,
Not like th' inferiour, limited by sence.
Rich with a little, mutuall love can lift
Vs to a greatnesse, whither chance nor thrift
E're rais'd her servants. For though all were spent,
That can create a Europe in content.
Thus (Madam) when Castara lends an eare
Soft to my hope, I Loves Philosopher,
Winne on her faith. For when I wondring stand
At th' intermingled beauty of her hand,
(Higher I dare not gaze) to this bright veine
I not ascribe the blood of Charlemaine
Deriv'd by you to her. Or say there are
In that and th' other Marmion, Rosse , and Parr
Fitzhugh, Saint Quintin , and the rest of them
That adde such lustre to great Pembrokes stem.
My love is envious. Would Castara were
The daughter of some mountaine cottager
Who with his toile worne out, could dying leave
Her no more dowre, then what she did receive
From bounteous nature. Her would I then lead
To th' Temple, rich in her owne wealth: her head
Crown'd with her haires faire treasure; diamonds in
Her brighter eyes; soft Ermines in her skin;
Each Indie in each cheeke. Then all who vaunt,
That fortune, them t' enrich, made others want,
Should set themselves out glorious in her stealth,
And trie if that, could parallel this wealth.