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He knows, below, he shall find plenty of meat;
heaped On thy good lady, then! who therein reaped The just reward of her high housewifery; To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh, When she was far; and not a room but dressed As if it had expected such a guest ! These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all. Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal. His children thy great lord
may A fortune in this age but rarely known. They are, and have been taught religion; thence Their gentler spirits have sucked innocence. Each morn and even they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Read in their virtuous parents' noble parts
call his own;
The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.
TO SIR ROBERT WROTH.? How blessed art thou, canst love the country,
7 The Wroths were seated at Durance, in Middlesex, so far back as the early part of the fifteenth century. Sir Thomas Wroth in the reign of Queen Mary, says Fuller, fled over to Germany for his religion; and yet the vame of Wroth was the only one of the gentry of Middlesex that was found surviving in the county one hundred and sixty years afterwards. Sir Robert Wroth was the husband of the lady to whom two previous epigrams are addressed. See ante, pp.58, 60. – B.
Live with unbought provision blest;
8 James I. is said to have been a frequent guest at the house of Sir Robert Wroth. – B.
9 That is, for the greater game which frequented it. This, which was the afternoon's amusement, is noticed by many of our old writers. Sir Topas was much attached to it, if we may trust Chaucer :
“He couth hunt at the wild dere
Of flowery fields, of copses green,
10 affords them welcome grace, And the great heroes of her race Sit mixed with loss of state, or reverence; Freedom doth with degree dispense. The jolly wassail walks the often round, And in their
cups their cares are drowned ; They think not then which side the cause shall
And such, since thou canst make thine own con
tent, Strive, Wroth, to live long innocent. Let others watch in guilty arms, and stand The fury of a rash command, Go enter breaches, meet the cannon's rage, That they may sleep with scars in age, And show their feathers shot, and colors torn, And brag that they were therefore born. Let this man sweat, and wrangle at the bar, For every price, in every jar, And change possessions oftener with his breath, Than either money, war, or death ; Let him, than hardest sires, more disinherit, And each where boast it as his merit To blow up orphans, widows, and their states; And think his power doth equal fate's. Let that go heap a mass of wretched wealth, Purchased by rapine, worse than stealth, And brooding o’er it sit, with broadest eyes, Not doing good, scarce when he dies. Let thousands more go flatter vice, and win, By being organs to great sin; Get place and honor, and be glad to keep The secrets that shall break their sleep; And so they ride in purple, eat in plate, Though poison, think it a great fate. But thou, my Wroth, if I can truth apply, Shalt neither that nor this envụ. Thy peace is made; and, when man's state is well,