O blinde conceite, these gloryes are but small,
And as for friends, they change their mindes so mych,
They stay not long with neither poore nor rich.
63.
With hope of friends our selues wee do deceaue,
With feare of foes we threatned are with sleepe:
But friends speake fayre yet men alone they leaue
To sinke or swim, to mourne, to laugh, or weepe:
Yet whan for smiles, the snake begins to creepe,
As world falls out these dayes in compasse iust,