Against themselves that they are vainely spent.
For though she passe all things, yet what is all
That unto me, who fare like him that both
Lookes to the skyes and in a ditch doth fall,
O let me prop my mind yet in his grouth
And not in nature, for best fruits unfit;
Scholler saith Love bend hitherward your wit.
Fly, flye my friends, I have my deathes wound, flye;
See there that boy, that murthering boy I say,
Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye,