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LXVI. To Sir Henry Cary.

That neither fame, nor love might wanting be
To greatnesse, Cary, I sing that, and thee.
Whose House, if it no other honour had,
In onely thee, might be both great, and glad.
Who, to upbraid the sloth of this our time,
Durst valour make, almost, but not a crime.
Which deed I know not, whether were more high,
Or thou more happie, it to justifie
Against thy fortune: when no foe, that day,
Could conquer thee, but chance, who did betray.
Love thy great losse, which a renowne hath wonne,

The Castle and River neere where hee was taken.

To live when Broeck not stands, nor Roor doth runne.

Love honours, which of best example bee,
When they cost dearest, and are done most free.
Though every fortitude deserves applause,
It may be much, or little, in the cause.

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Hee's valiant'st, that dares fight, and not for pay;
That vertuous is, when the reward's away.