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| THOU art not, Penshurst, built to envious show | |
| Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row | |
| Of polish’d pillars or a roofe of gold: | |
| Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told; | |
| Or stayre, or courts; but stand’st an ancient pile, | 5 |
| And, these grudg’d at, art reverenc’d the while, | |
| Thou joy’st in better marks, of soile, of ayre, | |
| Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire. | |
| Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport: | |
| Thy Mount, to which the Dryads do resort, | 10 |
| Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made, | |
| Beneath the broad beach and the chestnut shade: | |
| The taller tree which of a nut was set, | |
| At his great birth, where all the Muses met. | |
| There, in the writhed barke, are cut the names | 15 |
| Of many a Sylvane, taken with his flames; | |
| And thence the ruddy Satyres oft provoke | |
| The lighter Faunes, to reach thy ladie’s oke. | |
| Thy copp’s too, nam’d of Gamage, thou hast there, | |
| That never failes to serve thee season’d deere, | 20 |
| When thou wouldst feast, or exercise thy friends. | |
| The lower land, that to the river bends, | |
| Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine and calves, do feed: | |
| The middle grounds thy mares, and horses breed. | |
| Each banck doth yeeld thee coneyes; and the topps | 25 |
| Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sydney’s copps, | |
| To crown thy open table, doth provide | |
| The purple phesant, with the speckled side: | |
| The painted partrich lyes in every field, | |
| And for thy messe is willing to be kill’d. | 30 |
| And if the high-swolne Medway faile thy dish, | |
| Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish, | |
| Fat aged carps, that run into thy net, | |
| And pikes, now weary their own kinde to eat, | |
| As loth the second draught or cast to stay, | 35 |
| Officiously at first themselves betray. | |
| Bright eeles, that emulate them, and leape on land, | |
| Before the fisher, or into his hand. | |
| Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, | |
| Fresh as the ayre, and new as are the houres. | 40 |
| The early cherry, with the later plum, | |
| Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come: | |
| The blushing apricot and woolly peach | |
| Hang on thy wals, that every child may reach. | |
| And though thy wals be of the countrey stone, | 45 |
| They ’re rear’d with no man’s ruine, no man’s grone: | |
| There ’s none that dwell about them wish them downe; | |
| But all come in, the farmer and the clowne: | |
| And no one empty-handed, to salute | |
| Thy lord and lady, though they have no sute. | 50 |
| Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake, | |
| Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make | |
| The better cheeses bring ’hem; or else send | |
| By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend | |
| This way to husbands; and whose baskets beare | 55 |
| An emblem of themselves, in plum or peare. | |
| But what can this (more than expresse their love) | |
| Adde to thy free provisions, farre above | |
| The need of such? whose liberall boord doth flow, | |
| With all that hospitality doth know! | 60 |
| Where comes no guest but is allow’d to eat, | |
| Without his feare, and of thy lord’s owne meat: | |
| Where the same beere and bread, and selfe-same wine, | |
| That is his lordship’s, shall be also mine. | |
| And I not faine to sit (as some this day, | 65 |
| At great men’s tables) and yet dine away. | |
| Here no man tels my cups; nor, standing by, | |
| A waiter doth my gluttony envy: | |
| But gives me what I call for, and lets me eate; | |
| He knowes, below, he shall finde plentie of meate; | 70 |
| Thy tables hoord not up for the next day, | |
| Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray | |
| For fire, or lights, or livorie: all is there; | |
| As if thou then wert mine, or I raign’d here: | |
| There ’s nothing I can wish, for which I stay. | 75 |
| That found king James, when hunting late this way, | |
| With his brave sonne, the prince, they saw thy fires | |
| Shine bright on every harth, as the desires | |
| Of thy Penates had beene set on flame, | |
| To entertayne them; or the countrey came, | 80 |
| With all their zeale to warme their welcome here. | |
| What (great, I will not say, but) sodaine cheare | |
| Didst thou then make ’hem! and what praise was heap’d | |
| On thy good lady then! who therein reap’d | |
| The just reward of her high huswifery; | 85 |
| To have her linnen, plate, and all things nigh | |
| When she was farre: and not a roome, but drest, | |
| As if it had expected such a guest! | |
| These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all. | |
| Thy lady ’s noble, fruitfull, chaste withall. | 90 |
| His children thy great lord may call his owne: | |
| A fortune in this age but rarely knowne, | |
| They are, and have beene taught religion: thence | |
| Their gentler spirits have suck’d innocence. | |
| Each morne, and even, they are taught to pray | 95 |
| With the whole houshold, and may every day | |
| Reade in their vertuous parents’ noble parts, | |
| The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts. | |
| Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee | |
| With other edifices, when they see | 100 |
| Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else, | |
| May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells. | |
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