Yet cursed pryde doth all their wittes becharme,
They thinke of naught but prouerbes true do trie:
Who hewes aloft the chips may hurte his eye:
Who climes the tops of trees, wher bowes ar smal,
Or hawty towres, may quickly catch a fall.
This thing full well doth Phaëtons fall declare,
And Icarus aloft would flie and soare:
Eke Bladud once of Britayne rule that bare,
Would clyme and flie, but eache did fal therfore:
For Phaëton was with lightning all to tore,