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Couldst thou spurn Vertue meanly clad,
As if 'twere spotted Infamy,
And prayse as Good what is most Bad—,
This Worldes for Thee.
Sithence thou canst not will it soe,
Poor Flutterer, goe!
If Head with Hearte could so accord,
In bond of perfyte Amitié,
That Falsehood raigned in Thoughte, Deed, Word—
This Worldes for Thee.
But scorning guile, Truth-plighted one!
Thy race is run.
Couldst thou laughe loude, when grieved hearts weep
And Fiendlyke probe theire Agonye,
Rich harvest here thou soon wouldst reape—
This Worldes for Thee;
But with the Weeper thou must weepe,
And sad watch keep.
Couldst thou smyle swete when Wrong hath wrung
The withers of the Poore but Prowde,
