For wonders, the Piramedes: Balme more good!
The weeping Crocadile, Nyles swelling flood;
Deaths funerall Mommeis; the Sea-horse bred
At Damieta: the Sphynx with grandure cled:
And where base Fortune, play’d the errand whoore,
In making meane men great, and great men poore:
In thee, I’le dive, though deep is thine old ground,
And further far, then I can search or sound:
Yet when men shoot, O all the marke doe eye;
But seldome touch’t; enough, if they come nye: