A New-Yeares Gift to my Lorde Duke of Buckingham

When I can pay my parents, or my king,
For life, or peace, or any dearer thing;
Then, dearest lord, expect my debt to you
Shall bee as truly paid, as it is due.
But, as no other price or recompence
Serves them, but love, and my obedience;
So nothing payes my lord, but whats above
The reach of hands, ’tis vertue, and my love.
“For, when as goodnesse doth so overflow,
“The conscience bindes not to restore, but owe:”
Requitall were presumption; and you may
Call mee ungratefull, while I strive to pay.
Nor with a morall lesson doe I shift,
Like one that meant to save a better gift;
Like very poore, or counterfeite poore men,
Who, to preserve their turky or their hen,
Doe offer up themselves: No; I have sent
A kind of guift, will last by being spent,
Thankes sterling: far above the bullion rate
Of horses, hangings, jewells, or of plate.
O you that know the choosing of that one,
Know a true diamond from a Bristow stone:
You know, those men alwaies are not the best
In their intent, that lowdest can protest:
But that a prayer from the convocation,
Is better than the commons protestation.
Trust those that at the test their lives will lay,
And know no arts, but to deserve, and pray:
Whilst they, that buy preferment without praying,
Begin with broyles, and finish with betraying.