Honour is so sublime perfection, And so refinde; that when God was alone And creaturelesse at first, himselfe had none; But as of the elements, these which wee tread, Produce all things with which wee'are joy'd or fed, And, those are barren both above our head: So from low persons doth all honour flow; Kings, whom they would have honoured, to us show, And but @3direct@1 our honour, not @3bestow@1. For when from herbs the pure part must be wonne From grosse, by Stilling, this is better done By despis'd dung, then by the fire or Sunne. Care not then, Madame, 'how low your praysers lye; In labourers balads oft more piety God findes, then in @3Te Deums@1 melodie. And, ordinance rais'd on Towers, so many mile Send not their voice, nor last so long a while As fires from th'earths low vaults in @3Sicil@1 Isle. Should I say I liv'd darker then were true, Your radiation can all clouds subdue; But one, 'tis best light to contemplate you. You, for whose body God made better clay, Or tooke Soules stuffe such as shall late decay, Or such as needs small change at the last day. This, as an Amber drop enwraps a Bee, Covering discovers your quicke Soule; that we May in your through-shine front your hearts thoughts see. You teach (though wee learne not) a thing unknowne To our late times, the use of specular stone, Through which all things within without were shown. Of such were Temples; so and of such you are; @3Beeing@1 and @3seeming@1 is your equall care, And @3vertues@1 whole @3summe@1 is but @3know@1 and @3dare@1. But as our Soules of growth and Soules of sense Have birthright of our reasons Soule, yet hence They fly not from that, nor seeke presidence: Natures first lesson, so, discretion, Must not grudge zeale a place, nor yet keepe none, Not banish it selfe, nor religion. Discretion is a wisemans Soule, and so Religion is a Christians, and you know How these are one; her @3yea@1, is not her @3no@1. Nor may we hope to sodder still and knit These two, and dare to breake them; nor must wit Be colleague to religion, but be it. In those poor types of God (round circles) so Religions tipes, the peecelesse centers flow, And are in all the lines which all wayes goe. If either ever wrought in you alone Or principally, then religion Wrought your ends, and your wayes discretion. Goe thither still, goe the same way you went, Who so would change, do covet or repent; Neither can reach you, great and innocent. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON by JOHN CLEVELAND THE EXCHANGE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ON A MAGAZINE SONNET by RUSSELL HILLARD LOINES THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY [1621] by MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON VIRGILS GNAT: DEDICATORY SONNET by EDMUND SPENSER WELCOME GUEST by JEAN D. ARMSTRONG FATHERHOOD by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN |