Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO THE LADIE ANNE, COUNTESSE OF DORCET, by AEMILIA (BASSANO) LANYER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO THE LADIE ANNE, COUNTESSE OF DORCET, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: To you I dedicate this worke of grace
Last Line: Whose worth is more than can be shew'd by art.
Alternate Author Name(s): Lanier, Emilia
Subject(s): Clifford, Anne. Countess Of Pembroke; Virtue


To you I dedicate this worke of Grace,
This frame of Glory which I have erected,
For your faire mind I hold the fittest place,
Where virtue should be setled and protected;
If highest thoughts true honor do imbrace,
And holy Wisdom is of them respected:
Then in this Mirrour let your faire eyes looke,
To view your virtues in this blessed Booke.

Blest by our Saviours merits, not my skil,
Which I acknowledge to be very small;
Yet if the least part of his blessed Will
I have perform'd, I count I have done all:
One sparke of grace sufficient is to fill
Our Lampes with oyle, ready when he doth call
To enter with the Bridegroome to the feast,
Where he that is the greatest may be least.

Greatnesse is no sure frame to build upon,
No worldly treasure can assure that place;
God makes both even, the Cottage with the Throne,
All worldly honours there are counted base;
Those he holds deare, and reckneth as his owne,
Whose virtuous deeds by his especiall grace
Have gain'd his love, his kingdome, and his crowne,
Whom in the booke of Life he hath set downe.

Titles of honour which the world bestowes,
To none but to the virtuous doth belong;
As beauteous bowres where true worth should repose,
And where his dwellings should be built most strong:
But when they are bestow'd upon her foes,
Poore virtues friends indure the greatest wrong:
For they must suffer all indignity,
Untill in heav'n they better graced be.

What difference was there when the world began,
Was it not Virtue that distinguish all?
All sprang but from one woman and one man,
Then how doth Gentry come to rise and fall?
Or who is he that very rightly can
Distinguish of his birth, or tell at all,
In what meane state his Ancestors have bin,
Before some one of worth did honour win?

Whose successors, although they beare his name,
Possessing not the riches of his minde,
How doe we know they spring out of the same
True stocke of honour, beeing not of that kind?
It is faire virtue gets immortall fame,
Tis that doth all love and duty bind:
If he that much enjoyes, doth little good,
We may suppose he comes not of that blood.

Nor is he fit for honour, or command,
If base affections over-rules his mind;
Or that selfe-will doth carry such a hand,
As worldly pleasures have the powre to blind
So as he cannot see, nor understand
How to discharge that place to him assign'd:
Gods Stewards must for all the poore provide,
If in Gods house they purpose to abide.

To you, as to Gods Steward I doe write,
In whom the seeds of virtue have bin sowne,
By your most worthy mother, in whose right,
All her faire parts you challenge as your owne;
If you, sweet Lady, will appeare as bright
As ever creature did that time hath knowne,
Then weare this Diadem I present to thee,
Which I have fram'd for her Eternitie.

Your are the Heire apparant of this Crowne
Of goodnesse, bountie, grace, love, pietie,
By birth its yours, then keepe it as your owne,
Defend it from all base indignitie;
The right your Mother hath to it, is knowne
Best unto you, who reapt such fruit thereby:
This Monument of her faire worth retaine
In your pure mind, and keepe it from al staine.

And as your Ancestors at first possest
Their honours, for their honourable deeds,
Let their faire virtues never be transgrest,
Bind up the broken, stop the wounds that bleeds,
Succour the poore, comfort the comfortlesse,
Cherish faire plants, suppresse unwholsom weeds;
Althogh base pelfe do chance to come in place,
Yet let true worth receive your greatest grace.

So shal you shew from whence you are descended,
And leave to all posterities your fame,
So will your virtues alwaies be commended,
And every one will reverence your name;
So this poore worke of mine shalbe defended
From any scandall that the world can frame:
And you a glorious Actor will appeare
Lovely to all, but unto God most deare.

I know right well these are but needlesse lines,
To you, that are so perfect in your part,
Whose birth and education both combines;
Nay more than both, a pure and godly heart,
So well instructed to such faire designes,
By your deere Mother, that there needs no art:
Your ripe discretion in your tender yeares,
By all your actions to the world appeares.

I doe but set a candle in the sunne,
And adde one drop of water to the sea,
Virtue and Beautie both together run,
When you were borne, within your breast to stay;
Their quarrell ceast, which long before begun,
They live in peace, and all doe them obey:
In you faire Madame, are they richly plac'd,
Where all their worth by Eternity is grac'd.

You goddesse-like unto the world appeare,
Inricht with more than fortune can bestowe,
Goodnesse and Grace, which you doe hold more deere
Than worldly wealth, which melts away like snowe;
Your pleasure is the word of God to heare,
That his most holy precepts you may know:
Your greatest honour, faire and virtuous deeds,
Which from the love and feare of God proceeds.

Therefore to you (good Madame) I present
His lovely love, more worth than purest gold,
Who for your sake his pretious blood hath spent,
His death and passion you may here behold,
And view this Lambe, that to the world was sent,
Whom your faire soule may in her armes infold:
Loving his love, that did-endure such paine,
That you in heaven a worthy place might gaine.

For well you knowe, this world is but a Stage
Where all doe play their parts, and must be gone;
Here's no respect of persons, youth, nor age,
Death seizeth all, he never spareth one,
None can prevent or stay that tyrants rage,
But Jesus Christ the Just: By him alone
He was orecome, He open set the dore
To Eternall life, ne're seene, nor knowne before.

He is the stone the builders did refuse,
Which you, sweet Lady, are to build upon;
He is the rocke that holy Church did chuse,
Among which number, you must needs be one;
Faire Shepheardesse, tis you that he will use
To feed his flocke, that trust in him alone:
All wordly blessings he vouchsafes to you,
That to the poore you may returne his due.

And if deserts a Ladies love may gaine,
Then tell me, who hath more deserv'd than he?
Therefore in recompence of all his paine,
Bestowe your paines to reade, and pardon me,
If out of wants, or weakenesse of my braine,
I have not done this worke sufficiently;
Yet lodge him in the closet of your heart,
Whose worth is more than can be shew'd by Art.





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