U  N  D  E  R  W  O  O  D  S . MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. LXVIII. — AN EPIGRAM, TO THE HONORED COUNTESS OF * * *.    The wisdom, madam, of your private life, Wherewith this while you live a widow'd wife, And the right ways you take unto the right, To conquer rumor, and triumph on spite ; Not only shunning by your act to do Aught that is ill, but the suspicion too, Is of so brave example, as he were No friend to virtue, could be silent here ; The rather when the vices of the time Are grown so fruitful, and false pleasures climb, By all oblique degrees, that killing height From whence they fall, cast down with their own weight. And though all praise bring nothing to your name, Who (herein studying conscience, and not fame) Are in yourself rewarded ; yet 'twill be A cheerful work to all good eyes, to see Among the daily ruins that fall foul Of state, of fame, of body, and of soul, So great a virtue stand upright to view, As makes Penelope's old fable true, Whilst your Ulysses hath ta'en leave to go, Countries and climes, manners and men to know. Only your time you better entertain, Than the great Homer's with for her could feign ; For you admit no company but good, And when you want those friends, or near in blood, Or your allies, you make your books your friends, And study them unto the noblest ends, Searching for knowledge, and to keep your mind The same it was inspired, rich and refined.     These graces, when the rest of ladies view, Not boasted in your life, but practis'd true, As they are hard for them to make their own, So are they profitable to be known : For when they find so many meet in one, It will be shame for them, if they have none.
Source: Jonson, Ben.  The Works of Ben Jonson. Boston: Phillips, Sampson, and Co., 1853. 834.

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