Oft lives by loss, and leaves with pain.
DIG. I wot ne, Hobbin, how I was bewitch'd
With vain desire and hope to be enrich'd:
But, sicker, so it is, as the bright star
Seemeth aye greater when it is far:
I thought the soil would have made me rich,
But now I wot it is nothing sich;
For either the shepheards be idle and still,
And led of their sheep what way they will,
Or they be false, and full of covetise,