To Mr. Thomas Woodward

At once from hence my lines and I depart,
I to my soft still walks, they to my heart,
I to the nurse, they to the child of art.

Yet as a firm house, though the carpenter
Perish, doth stand; as an ambassador
Lies safe, howe’er his king be in danger;

So, though I languish, press’d with melancholy,
My verse, the strict map of my misery,
Shall live to see that, for whose want I die.

Therefore I envy them, and do repent,
That from unhappy me, things happy are sent.
Yet as a picture, or bare sacrament,
  Accept these lines, and if in them there be
  Merit of love, bestow that love on me.