If your example be obey'd The serious few will live ith' silent shade: And not indanger by the wind Or Sunshine, the complexion of their mind: Whose beauty weares so cleare a skin That it decayes with the least taint of sin. Vice growes by custome, nor dare we Reject it as a slave, where it breathes free, And is no priviledge denyed; Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed. Wherefore your Lordship in your selfe (Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfe Of humbler fortune) lives at ease, Safe from the rocks oth' shore, and stormes oth' Seas. Your soule's a well built City, where There's such munition, that no war breeds feare: No rebels wilde destractions move; For you the heads have crusht; Rage, Envy, Love. And therefore you defiance bid To open enmity, or mischiefe hid In fawning hate and supple pride, Who are on every corner fortifide. Your youth not rudely led by rage Of blood, is now the story of your age Which without boast you may averre 'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer: Glory not purchast by the breath Of Sycophants, but by encountring death. Yet wildnesse nor the feare of lawes Did make your fight, but justice of the cause. For but mad prodigals they are Of fortitude, who for it selfe love warre. When well made peace hath clos'd the eyes Of discord, loath did not your youth surprize. Your life as well as powre, did awe The bad, and to the good was the best law: When most men vertue did pursue In hope by it to grow in fame like you. Nor when you did to court repaire, Did you your manners alter with the ayre. You did your modesty retaine Your faithfull dealing, the same tongue and braine. Nor did all the soft flattery there Inchant you so, but still you truth could heare. And though your roofes were richly guilt, The basis was on no wards ruine built. Nor were your vassals made a prey, And forc't to curse the Coronation day. And though no bravery was knowne To out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne. For 'twas the indulgence of fate, To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state? But I, my Lord, who have no friend Of fortune, must begin where you doe end. 'Tis dang'rous to approach the fire Of action; nor is't safe, farre to retire. Yet better lost ith' multitude Of private men, then on the state t'intrude, And hazard for a doubtfull smile, My stocke of same, and inward peace to spoile. Ile therefore nigh some murm'ring brooke That wantons through my meddowes, with a booke With my _Castara_, or some friend, My youth not guilty of ambition spend. To my own shade (if fate permit) Ile whisper some soft musique of my wit.