I thinke now of thy faults, who late wrote of thy praise,
That speech falls now to blame which did thy honour raise:
The same key open can, which can locke up a treasure.
4 Then thou whom partiall heavens conspir’d in one to frame
The proofe of beauties worke, the inheritance of fame,
The mansion state of blisse, and just excuse of lovers:
See now those feathers pluckt wherewith thou flewest most hie,
See what cloudes of reproach shall darke thy honours skie;
Whom fault once casteth downe, hardly high state recovers.
5 And ô my Muse, though oft you luld her in your lap,