| |
| EACH 1 hath his time whom Fortune will aduance, | |
| Whose fickle wheel runs restless round about; | |
| Some flattering lye oft changeth others’ chance, | |
| Dangers deceipt in guiltie harts breeds doubt. | |
| It’s seene | 5 |
| What yet hath beene, | |
| With tract of time to passe | |
| And change | |
| Of fortune strange | |
| At last hath turn’d their glasse. | 10 |
| |
| Enuie triumphs on tops of high estate, | |
| All ouer hung with veiles of feigned show; | |
| Man climbes aboue the course of such conceates, | |
| That loftie-like they loath to look below. | |
| And what? | 15 |
| All’s hazard that | |
| We seek on dice to set; | |
| For some | |
| To heights do come | |
| That fall in danger’s net. | 20 |
| |
| The gallant man, if poore, hee’s thought a wretch, | |
| His virtue rare is held in high disdayne; | |
| The greatest fool is wise if he be ritch, | |
| And wisdome flowes from his lunatique brayne. | |
| Thus see | 25 |
| Rare spirits to bee | |
| Of no account at all; | |
| Disgrace | |
| Hath got such place, | |
| Each joyes at other’s fall. | 30 |
| |
| The brib’rous minde who makes a god of gould, | |
| He scornes to plead without he haue reward; | |
| Then poore men’s suites at highest rates are sould, | |
| Whilst Aurice damn’d, nor Truth have no regard: | |
| For heere | 35 |
| He hath no feare | |
| Of God’s consuming curse: | |
| His gaines | |
| Doth pull with paines | |
| Plagues from the poore man’s purse. | 40 |
| |
| The furious flames of Sodom’s sodaine fire | |
| With feruent force consume vaine pride to nought; | |
| With wings of wax let soaring him aspire | |
| Aboue the starres of his ambition’s thought; | |
| And so | 45 |
| When hee doth go | |
| On top of pride’s high glory, | |
| Then shall | |
| His sodain fall | |
| Become the world’s sad story. | 50 |
| |
| Ingratitude, that ill-ill-fauored ill, | |
| In noble breastes hath builded castles strong; | |
| Obliuion setts vp troph’s that still | |
| Bewrayes the filthy vildeness of that wrong: | |
| Ah! minde | 55 |
| Where deu’llish kinde | |
| Ingratitude doth dwell; | |
| That ill | |
| Coequals still | |
| The greatest ill in hell. | 60 |
| |
| On poyson’s filth contagious error spreads, | |
| Heauen’s spotless eyes look as amaz’d with wonder; | |
| Their viprous mindes such raging horror breedes, | |
| To teare religion’s virgin roabes asunder. | |
| What then? | 65 |
| O wicked men, | |
| And hel’s eternal, pray: | |
| Go mourne, | |
| And in time turne | |
| From your erronius way. | 70 |
| |
| What course wants crosse? What kind of state wants strife? | |
| What worldling yet would euer seem content? | |
| What haue we heere in this our thwarting life? | |
| Joy, beautie, honour, loue, like smoak are spent. | |
| I say, | 75 |
| Time goes away, | |
| Without returne againe: | |
| How wise | |
| Who can despise | |
| These worldly vapours vaine! | 80 |
