Murus aeneus, sanaconscientia
To MILES HOBART Esquier.
Bothe freshe, and greene, the Laurell standeth sounde,
Thoughe lightninges flasshe, and thunderboltes do flie:
Where, other trees are blasted to the grounde,
Yet, not one leafe of it, is withered drie:
Even so, the man that hathe a conscience cleare,
When wicked men, doe quake at everie blaste,
Doth constant stande, and dothe no perrilles feare,
When tempestes rage, doe make the worlde agaste:
Suche men are like unto the Laurell tree,
The others, like the blasted boughes that die.