But in my hands still kept the golden gad,
That seru’d my turne and laught the rest to skorne,
As for himselfe was cardnall Wolsey borne.
58.
No, no, good men, wee liue not for ourselues,
Though each one catch as mutch as hee may get:
Wee ought to looke to those that diggs and delues,
That alwayes dwell and liue in endles det,
Yf in such sort wee would our compas set,
Wee should haue loue where now but hate wee finde,