Ah that it was my fortune to be borne,
Now in the time of this degener'd age,
When some, in whom impietie doth rage,
Do all the rest discredit whil'st they scorne.
And this is growne to such a custome now,
That those are thought to haue the brauest spirits,
Who can faine fancies and imagine merits:
As who but for their lusts of loue allow.
And yet in this I had good hap, I find,
That chanc'd to chaine my thoughts to such an one,
Whose iudgement is so cleare, that she anone
Can by the outward gestures iudge the mind.
Yet wit and fortune rarely waite on one,
She knowes the best, yet can make choice of none.
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