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Poem	LXVI. — TO SIR HENRY CARY. That neither fame, nor love might wanting be To greatness, CARY, I sing that and thee ; Whose house, if it no other honor had, In only thee, might be both great and glad : Who, to upbraid the sloth of this our time, Durst valor make, almost, but not a crime. Which deed I know not, whether were more high, Or, thou more happy, it to justify Against thy fortune ; when no foe, that day, Could conquer thee, but chance, who did betray. Love thy great loss, which a renown hath won, To live when Broeck not stands, nor Roor doth run : Love honors, which of best example be, When they cost dearest, and are done most free. Though every fortitude deserves applause, It may be much, or little, in the cause. He'st valiant'st, that dares fight, and not for pay ; That virtuous is, when the reward's away.
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