’T ’ath a mad name: it is called, ich ween, Centum pro cento.
Some other in courts make others laugh merrily,
When they wail and lament their own estate secretly.
Friendship is dead in court, hypocrisy doth reign;
Who is in favour now, to-morrow is out again:
The state is so uncertain that I, by my will,
Will never be courtier, but a collier still.
Will. It seemeth that colliers have a very[114] trim life.
Grim. Colliers get money still: tell me of troth,
Is not that a trim life now, as the world go’th?