Unto it self, passing in easie fit,
As kindly ripen’d corn comes out of th’ eare.
Thus mindlesse of what idle men will say
He takes his own and stilly goes his way.
But the retinue of proud Lucifer,
Those blustering Poets that flie after fame
And deck themselves like the bright Morning-starre.
Alas! it is but all a crackling flame.
For death will strip them of that glorious plume
That airie blisse will vanish into fume.