Flye from thy chanell Thames, forsake thy streames,
Leave the adamaunt iron, Phœbus lay thy[1398] beames,
Ceasse heauenly sphears at last your weary warke,
Betray your charge, retourne to chaos darke:
At least, some ruthles tiger hang her whelp,
My Catesby so with some excuse to help,
And mee to comfort, that I, alone, ne seme
Of all dame nature’s workes, left[1399] in extreme.
44.
A golden treasure is the tryed frend,