My fame and bruite abroade the world is blowne,
Who can forget, a thing thus done so late?
My great mischaunce, my fall, and heauy state,
Is such a marke, whereat each tongue doth shoote,
That my good name is pluckt vp by the roote.
2.
This wandring world bewitched mee with wyles,
And won my wits, with wanton sugred ioyes:
In fortune’s frekes, who trustes her when shee smiles,
Shall finde her false, and full of fickle toyes,