Epistle to Elizabeth, Countess of Rutland

  
XII.
 — EPISTLE TO ELIZABETH COUNTESS OF RUTLAND.
 

That which, to boot with hell, is thought worth heaven, 
And for it, life, conscience, yea souls are given, 
Toils, by grave custom, up and down the court, 
To every squire, or groom, that will report 
Well or ill, only all the following year, 
Just to the weight their this day's presents bear ; 
While it makes huishers serviceable men,Of some grand peer, whose air doth make rejoice 
The fool that gave it ;  who will want and weep, 
When his proud patron's favors are asleep ; 
While thus it buys great grace, and hunts poor fame ; 
Runs between man and man ;  'tween dame, and dame ; 
Solders crack'd friendship ; makes love last a day ; 
Or perhaps less :  whilst gold bears all this sway, 
I, that have none to send you, send you verse.
Than this our gilt, nor golden age can deem, 
When gold was made no weapon to cut throats, 
Or put to flight Astrea, when her ingóts 
Were yet unfound, and better placed in earth, 
Than here, to give pride fame, and peasants birth, 
But let this dross carry what price it will 
With noble ignorants, and let them still 
Turn upon scorned verse, their quarter-face :Were it to think, that you should not inherit 
His love unto the Muses, when his skill 
Almost you have, or may have when you will ! 
Wherein wise nature you a dowry gave, 
Worth an estate, treble to that you have.
 
Beauty I know is good, and blood is more ; 
Riches thought most ;  but, madam, think what store 
The world hath seen, which all these had in trust,And at her strong arm's end, hold up, and even, 
The souls she loves.
  Those other glorious notes, 
Inscribed in touch or marble, or the coats 
Painted, or carv'd upon our great men's tombs, 
Or in their windows, do but prove the wombs 
That bred them, graves : when they were born they died,  
That had no muse to make their fame abide.
 
How many equal with the Argive queen,Or, in an army's head, that lock'd in brass 
Gave killing strokes.
  There were brave men before 
Ajax, or Idomen, or all the store 
That Homer brought to Troy ;  yet none so live, 
Because they lack'd the sacred pen could give 
Like life unto them.
  Who heav'd Hercules 
Unto the stars, or the Tindarides ? 
Who placed Jason's Argo in the sky,Or lifted Cassiopea in her chair, 
But only poets, rapt with rage divine ? 
And such, or my hopes fail, shall make you shine.
 
You, and that other star, that purest light, 
Of all Lucina's train, Lucy the bright ; 
Than which a nobler heaven itself knows not ; 
Who, though she hath a better verser got, 
Or poet, in the court-account, than I,To my less sanguine muse, wherein she hath won 
My grateful soul, the subject of her powers, 
I have already used some happy hours, 
To her remembrance ;  which when time shall bring 
To curious light, to notes I then shall sing, 
Will prove old Orpheus' act no tale to be : 
For I shall move stocks, stones, no less than he.
 
Then all that have but done my Muse least grace,Had not their form touch'd by an English wit.
 
There, like a rich and golden pyramed, 
Borne up by statues, shall I rear your head 
Above your under-carved ornaments, 
And shew how to the life my soul presents 
Your form imprest there :  not with tickling rhymes, 
Or common-places, filch'd, that take these times, 
But high and noble matter, such as fliesAnd your brave friend and mine so well did love.
 
Who, wheresoe'er he be ?
The rest is lost.
        


Whilst that for which all virtue now is sold, 
And almost every vice, almighty gold, 
That which, to boot with hell, is thought worth heaven, 
And for it, life, conscience, yea souls are given, 
Toils, by grave custom, up and down the court, 
To every squire, or groom, that will report 
Well or ill, only all the following year, 
Just to the weight their this day's presents bear ; 
While it makes huishers serviceable men,

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