Classic Poem

Not glad, like those that have new hopes, or suits,
With thy new place, bring I these early fruits
Of love, and what the golden age did hold
A treasure, art: contemned in th'age of gold.
Nor glad as those, that old dependants be,
To see thy father's rights new laid on thee.
Nor glad for fashion. Nor to show a fit
Of flattery to thy titles. Nor of wit.
But I am glad to see that time survive,
Where merit is not sepulchered alive.
Where good men's virtues them to honours bring,
And not to dangers. When so wise a king
Contends to have worth enjoy, from his regard,
As her own conscience, still, the same reward.
These (noblest Cecil) laboured in my thought,
Wherein what wonder see thy name hath wrought!
That whilst I meant but thine to gratulate,
I have sung the greater fortunes of our state.