Nor is to me your Innocence the lesse,
    In that I see you striue not to suppresse
    Their barbarous malice; but your noble heart
    Prepar’d to act so difficult a part,
    With vnremoued constancie is still
    The same it was, that of your proper ill,
    The effect proceeds from your owne selfe the cause,
    Like some iust Prince, who to establish lawes,
    Suffers the breach at his best lou’d to strike,
    To learne the vulgar to endure the like. 90
    You are a Martir thus, nor can you be
    Lesse to the world so valued by me: 
    If as you haue begun, you still perseuer
    Be euer good, that I may loue you euer.

An Elegie vpon the death of the Lady PENELOPE CLIFTON

      Must I needes write, who’s hee that can refuse,
    He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse,
    The thought of her doth heau’nly rage inspire,
    Next powerfull, to those clouen tongues of fire. 
      Since I knew ought time neuer did allowe
    Me stuffe fit for an Elegie, till now;
    When France and England’s HENRIES dy’d, my quill,
    Why, I know not, but it that time lay still. 
    ’Tis more then greatnesse that my spirit must raise,
    To obserue custome I vse not to praise; 10
    Nor the least thought of mine yet ere depended,
    On any one from whom she was descended;
    That for their fauour I this way should wooe,
    As some poor wretched things (perhaps) may doe;
    I gaine the end, whereat I onely ayme,
    If by my freedome, I may giue her fame. 
      Walking then forth being newly vp from bed,
    O Sir (quoth one) the Lady CLIFTON’S dead. 
    When, but that reason my sterne rage withstood,
    My hand had sure beene guilty of his blood. 20
    If shee be so, must thy rude tongue confesse it
    (Quoth I) and com’st so coldly to expresse it. 
    Thou shouldst haue giuen a shreeke, to make me feare thee;
    That might haue slaine what euer had beene neere thee. 
    Thou shouldst haue com’n like Time with thy scalpe bare,
    And in thy hands thou shouldst haue brought thy haire,
    Casting vpon me such a dreadfull looke,
    As seene a spirit, or th’adst beene thunder-strooke,
    And gazing on me so a little space,
    Thou shouldst haue shot thine eye balls in my face, 30
    Then falling at my feet, thou shouldst haue said,
    O she is gone, and Nature with her dead. 
      With this ill newes amaz’d by chance I past,
    By that neere Groue, whereas both first and last,
    I saw her, not three moneths before shee di’d. 
    When (though full Summer gan to vaile her pride,
    And that I sawe men leade home ripened Corne,
    Besides aduis’d me well,)