Lord, in my silence how do I despise
                                        What upon Trust
Is styled honour, riches, or fair eyes;
                                        But is fair dust!
                I surname them guilded clay,
                     Deare earth, fine grasse or hay;
In all, I think my foot doth ever tread
                                        Upon their head.

But when I view abroad both Regiments;
                                        The worlds, and thine:
Thine clad with simplenesse, and sad events;
                                        The other fine,
                Full of glorie and gay weeds,
                     Brave language, braver deeds:
That which was dust before, doth quickly rise,
                                        And prick mine eyes.

O brook not this, lest if what even now
                                        My foot did tread,
Affront those joyes, wherewith thou didst endow
                                        And long since wed
                My poore soul, ev’n sick of love:
                     It may a Babel prove
Commodious to conquer heav’n and thee
                                        Planted in me.