To Her Most Honoured Father

Dear Sir of late delighted with the sight     Of your four Sisters cloth'd in black and white,     Of fairer Dames the Sun ne'r saw the face;     Though made a pedestal for Adams Race;     Their worth so shines in those rich lines you show     Their paralels to finde I scarely know     To climbe their Climes, I have nor strength nor skill     To mount so high requires an Eagle's quill;     Yet view thereof did cause my thoughts to soar,     My lowly pen might wait upon those four     I bring my four times four, now meanly clad     To do their homage, unto yours, full glad:     Who for their Age, their worth and quality     Might seem of yours to claim precedency:     But by my humble hand, thus rudely pen'd     They are your bounden handmaids to attend     These same are they, from whom we being have     These are of all, the Life, the Nurse, the Grave;     These are the hot, the cold, the moist, the dry,     That sink, that swim, that fill, that upwards fly,     Of these consists our bodies, Cloathes and Food,     The World, the useful, hurtful, and the good,     Sweet harmony they keep, yet jar oft times     Their discord doth appear, by these harsh rimes     Yours did contest for wealth, for Arts, for Age,     My first do shew their good, and then their rage.     My other foures do intermixed tell     Each others faults, and where themselves excell,     How hot and dry contend with moist and cold,     How Air and Earth no correspondence hold,     And yet in equal tempers, how they 'gree     How divers natures make one Unity     Something of all (though mean) I did intend     But fear'd you'ld judge Du Bartas was my friend.     I honour him, but dare not wear his wealth     My goods are true (though poor) I love no stealth     But if I did I durst not send them you     Who must reward a Thief, but with his due.     I shall not need, mine innocence to clear     These ragged lines, will do 't when they appear:     On what they are, your mild aspect I crave     Accept my best, my worst vouchsafe a Grave.     From her that to your self, more duty owes     Then water in the boundess Ocean flows.     March 20, 1642.