Sic et Ingenium

THE Roses sweete, that in the Garden grow,
If that not often drest where they abide,
Become as wild as those, we see doe blow
In every feild, and hedge-row as we ride:
And though for beautie, once they did excell,
They now haue lost, both cullor and the smell.

So many men, whome Nature hath endu'de,
With rarest partes, of bodie, or the mind,
Do in themselues by Sloth, grow rancke and rude,
Not leauing any memorie behind,
Saue that they liued heere, and sometime were,
A needeles burthen which the Earth did beare.