[104]
From fire to sonne, doe waxe and wane,
By thrift and lauishing.
The fire, not valuing at due price
His wealth, it throwes away:
The sonne, by seruice or by match,
Repaireth this decay.
The smelling fence we sundry want,
But want it without lack:
For t'is no sense, to wish a weale,
That brings a greater wrack.
Through natures marke, we owne our babes,
By tip of th' upper lip;
Black-bearded all the race, saue mine,
Wrong dide by mothership.
The Barons wife, Arch-deacons heire,
Vnto her yonger sonne
Gaue Antony, which downe to me,
By 4. descents hath runne.
All which, and all their wiues, exprest
A Turtles single loue,
And neuer did tha'duentrous change,
Of double wedding proue.
We are the fist: to swarue herefrom,
I will not though I could,
As for my wife, God may dispose,
Shee shall not, though she would.
Our family transplants it selfe,
To grow in other shires,
And Countrey rather makes then takes,
As best behoofe appeares.
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