Virtue's a chaste queen, and yet doth not scorn
To be embrac'd by him that's meanest born;
She is the prop that Majesties support,

Yet one whom slaves as well as Kings may court.
She loveth all that bear affection to her,

And yields to any that hath heart to woo her.
So Vice, how high soe'er she be in place,

Is that, which grooms may spit at in disgrace:
She is a strumpet, and may be abhorr'd,
Yea, spurn'd at in the bosom of a Lord.
Yet, had I spoke her fair, I had been free,
As many others of her lovers be:

If her escapes I had not chanc'd to tell,
I might have been a villain and done well;
Gotten some special favour, and not sate
As now I do, shut up within a grate.

Or if I could have hap'd on some loose strain,
That might have pleas'd the wanton reader's vein,
Or but claw'd Pride, I now had been unblam'd,
(Or else at least there's some would not have sham'd
To plead my cause); but see my fatal curse!
Sure I was either mad, or somewhat worse;
For I saw Vice's followers bravely kept :

In silks they walk'd, on beds of down they slept,
Richly they fed on dainties evermore,

They had their pleasure, they had all things store,

(Whil'st Virtue begg'd) yea, favours had so many,
I knew they brook'd not to be touch'd of any;
Yet could not I, like other men, be wise,
Nor learn (for all this) how to temporize;
But must (with too much honesty made blind)
Upbraid this loved darling of mankind;
Whereas I might have better thriv'd by feigning;
Or if I could not chuse but be complaining,
More safe I might have raild'd on Virtue sure,
Because her lovers and her friends are fewer.

I might have brought some other things to pass,
Made fiddlers' songs, or ballads, like an ass,
Or any thing almost indeed but this.

Yet since 'tis thus, I'm glad 'tis so amiss;
Because if I am guilty of a crime,

'Tis that wherein the best of every time
Hath been found faulty (if they faulty be)
That do reprove abuse and villainy.

For what I'm tax'd, I can examples shew,
In such old authors as this state allow;
And I would fain once learn a reason why,
They can have kinder usage here than I?
I muse men do not now in question call
Seneca, Horace, Persius, Juvenal,
And such as they? Or why did not that age,
In which they lived, put them in a cage?

If I should say, that men were juster then,
I should near hand be made unsay't again;
And therefore sure I think, I were as good
Leave it to others to be understood.

Yet I as well may speak as deem amiss;
For such this age's curious cunning is,

I scarcely dare to let mine heart think ought,
For there be some will seem to know my thought,
Who may out-face me that I think awry,

When there's no witness but my conscience by;
And then I likely am as ill to speed,

As if I spake or did amiss indeed.

Yet lest those who, perhaps, may malice this, Interpret also these few lines amiss;

Let them, that after thee shall read or hear,
From a rash censure of my thoughts forbear:
Let them, not mould the sense that this contains
According to the forming of their brains,

Or think I dare, or can, here tax those peers, Whose worths their honours to my soul endears; (Those by whose loved-fear'd authority)

I am restrained of my liberty;

For lest, there yet may be a man so ill,
To haunt my lines with his black cement still,
(In hope my luck again may be so good,
To have my words once rightly understood),

This I protest, that I do not condemn
Ought as unjust, that hath been done by them;
For though my honest heart not guilty be
Of the least thought that may disparage me,
Yet when such men as I shall have such foes,
Accuse me of such crimes to such as those,
Till I had means my innocence to shew,
Their justice could have done no less than so.
Nor have I such a proud conceited wit,
Or self-opinion of my knowledge yet,
To think it may not be, that I have run
Upon some errors in what I have done,
Worthy this punishment which I endure;
(I say, I cannot so myself assure)

For 'tis no wonder if their wisdoms can
Discover imperfections in a man,

So weak as I, (more than himself doth see,)
Since my sight, dull with insufficiency,

In men more grave and wiser far than I,
Innumerable errors doth

espye,

Which they with all their knowledge, I'll be bold, Cannot, or will not, in themselves behold.

But ere I will myself accuse my song,

Or keep a tongue shall do my heart that wrong
To say, I willingly, in what I penn'd,

Did ought, that might a good man's sight offend,

Or with my knowledge did insert one word,
That might disparage a true honour'd lord,
Let it be in my mouth a helpless sore,

And never speak to be believed more.

Yet man irresolute is, unconstant, weak, And doth his purpose oft through frailty break; Lest therefore I by force hereafter may

Be brought from this mind, and these words unsay, Here to the world I do proclaim before,

If e'er my resolution be so poor,

"Tis not the right, but might that makes me do it; Yea, nought but fearful baseness brings me to it; Which, if I still hate, as I now detest,

Never can come to harbour in my breast.
Thus my fault then (if they a fault imply)
Is not alone an ill unwillingly,

But also, might I know it, I intend
Not only to acknowledge, but amend ;
Hoping that thou wilt not be so severe
To punish me above all other here;

But for m'intents sake, and my love to truth,
Impute my errors to the heat of youth;
Or rather ignorance than to my will,

Which sure I am was good, what e'er be ill;
And like to him now, in whose place thou art,
What e'er the residue be, accept the heart.