Her triumphs all, but fill our eares with noyse,
Her flattring giftes, are pleasures mixt with payne,
Yea, all her wordes are thunders threatning rayne.
3.
The fond desire that wee in glory set,
Doth thirle our hearts to hope in slipper hap,
A blast of pompe is all the fruite wee get,
And vnder that lies hid a sodayne clap:
In seeking rest vnwares wee fall in trap,
In groping flowres with nettels stong wee are,