Fortune changd made him so,
When he had left his prettie boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weepe not, my Wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old theres griefe enough for thee.
Streaming teares that never stint,
Like pearle drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eies,
That one anothers place supplies.
Thus he grieved in every part,