Hope is but small when we for mercie crye:
The birde halfe dead, that hauke hath fast in foote,
Lay head on blocke where is no other boote.
53.*
The rowling stone that tumbleth downe the hill,
Fynds none to stay the furie of his fall:
Once under foote for euer daunted still:
One cruell blowe strikes cleane away the ball:
Left once in lacke feeles alwayes want of will:
A conquerd mind must yeeld to every ill,