To the same

Not glad, like those that have new hopes, or suits,
With thy new place, bring I these early fruits
Of love, and, what the golden age did hold
A treasure, art; contemn'd in the age of gold.
Nor glad as those, that old dependents be,
To see thy father's rites new laid on thee.
Nor glad for fashion; nor to shew a fit
Of flattery to thy titles; nor of wit.
But I am glad to see that time survive,
Where merit is not sepulcher'd alive;
Where good men's virtues them to honours bring,
And not to dangers: when so wise a king
Contends to have worth enjoy, from his regard,
As her own conscience, still, the same reward.
These, noblest Cecil, laboured in my thought,
Wherein what wonder see thy name hath wrought
That whilst I meant but thine to gratulate,
I have sung the greater fortunes of our state.