To Sir Henry Nevil

Who now calls on thee, Nevil, is a muse,
That serves not fame, nor titles; but doth chuse
Where virtue makes them both, and that's in thee:
Where all is fair beside thy pedigree.
Thou art not one seek'st miseries with hope,
Wrestlest with dignities, or feign'st a scope
Of service to the public, when the end
Is private gain, which hath long guilt to friend.
Thou rather striv'st the matter to possess,
And elements of honour, than the dress;
To make thy lent life good against the fates:
And first to know thine own state, then the state's;
To be the same in root thou art in height;
And that thy soul should give thy flesh her weight.
Go on, and doubt not what posterity,
Now I have sung thee thus, shall judge of thee.
Thy deeds unto thy name will prove new wombs,
Whilst others toil for titles to their tombs.