_Count._ Might you haue wealth, and fortunes ritchest store? _Ida._ Yet would I (might I chuse) be honest poore. For she that sits at fortunes feete alowe Is sure she shall not taste a further woe. But those that prancke one top of fortunes ball, Still feare a change: and fearing catch a fall. _Count._ Tut foolish maide, each one contemneth need. 740 _Ida._ Good reasṏ why, they know not good indeed. _Count._ Many marrie then, on whom distresse doth loure, _Ida._ Yes they that vertue deeme an honest dowre. Madame, by right this world I may compare, Vnto my worke, wherein with heedfull care, The heauenly workeman plants with curious hand, As I with needle drawe each thing one land, Euen as hee list, some men like to the Rose, Are fashioned fresh, some in their stalkes do close, And borne do suddaine die: some are but weeds, 750 And yet from them a secret good proceeds: I with my needle if I please may blot, The fairest rose within my cambricke plot, God with a becke can change each worldly thing, The poore to earth, the begger to the king. What then hath man, wherein hee well may boast, Since by a becke he liues, a louer is lost? _Enter Eustace with letters._ _Count._ Peace _Ida_, heere are straungers neare at hand. _Eust._ Madame God speed. 760 _Count._ I thanke you gentle squire. _Eust._ The countrie Countesse of _Northumberland_, Doth greete you well, and hath requested mee, To bring these letters to your Ladiship. _He carries the letter._ _Count._ I thanke her honour, and your selfe my friend. _Shee receiues and peruseth them._ I see she meanes you good braue Gentleman, Daughter, the Ladie _Elinor_ salutes Your selfe as well as mee, then for her sake 770 T’were good you entertaind that Courtiour well. _Ida._ As much salute as may become my sex, And hee in vertue can vouchsafe to thinke, I yeeld him for the courteous Countesse sake. Good sir sit downe, my mother heere and I, Count time mispent, an endlesse vanitie. _Eust._ Beyond report, the wit, the faire, the shape, What worke you heere, faire Mistresse may I see it? _Id._ Good Sir looke on, how like you this compact? _Eust._ Me thinks in this I see true loue in act: 780 The Woodbines with their leaues do sweetly spred, The Roses blushing prancke them in their red, No flower but boasts the beauties of the spring, This bird hath life indeed if it could sing: What meanes faire Mistres had you in this worke? _Ida._ My needle sir. _Eust._ In needles then there lurkes, Some hidden grace I deeme beyond my reach. _Id._ Not grace in thẽ good sir, but those that teach. _Eust._ Say that your needle now were _Cupids_ sting, 790 But ah her eie must bee no lesse, In which is heauen and heauenlinesse, In which the foode of God is shut, Whose powers the purest mindes do glut. _Ida._ What if it were?