To visit you, for feare the northerne winde
Had peirc’t into your manners and your minde;
For feare you might want memory to forget
Some arts of Scotland which might haunt you yet.
But when I knew you were, and when I heard
You were at Woodstock seene, well sunn’d and air’d,
That your contagion in you now was spent,
And you were just lord Mordant, as you went,
I then resolv’d to come; and did not doubt
To be in season, though the bucke were out.