Yet were my sorrowes such as neuer man had like,

So diuers stormes at once, so often did mee strike:

But why, God knowes, not I, except it were for this,

To shewe by paterne of a prince, how brittle honour is.

19.

Our kingdomes are but cares, our state deuoide of stay,

Our riches ready snares, to hasten our decay:

Our pleasures priuy prickes, our vices to prouoke,

Our pompe a pumpe, our fame a flame, our power a smouldring smoke.

20.