Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Edward Farr, ed. Select Poetry of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth. 1845.

Stanzas

IV. Simion Grahame

EACH hath his time whom Fortune will aduance,

Whose fickle wheel runs restless round about;

Some flattering lye oft changeth others’ chance,

Dangers deceipt in guiltie harts breeds doubt.

It’s seene

What yet hath beene,

With tract of time to passe

And change

Of fortune strange

At last hath turn’d their glasse.

Enuie triumphs on tops of high estate,

All ouer hung with veiles of feigned show;

Man climbes aboue the course of such conceates,

That loftie-like they loath to look below.

And what?

All’s hazard that

We seek on dice to set;

For some

To heights do come

That fall in danger’s net.

The gallant man, if poore, hee’s thought a wretch,

His virtue rare is held in high disdayne;

The greatest fool is wise if he be ritch,

And wisdome flowes from his lunatique brayne.

Thus see

Rare spirits to bee

Of no account at all;

Disgrace

Hath got such place,

Each joyes at other’s fall.

The brib’rous minde who makes a god of gould,

He scornes to plead without he haue reward;

Then poore men’s suites at highest rates are sould,

Whilst Aurice damn’d, nor Truth have no regard:

For heere

He hath no feare

Of God’s consuming curse:

His gaines

Doth pull with paines

Plagues from the poore man’s purse.

The furious flames of Sodom’s sodaine fire

With feruent force consume vaine pride to nought;

With wings of wax let soaring him aspire

Aboue the starres of his ambition’s thought;

And so

When hee doth go

On top of pride’s high glory,

Then shall

His sodain fall

Become the world’s sad story.

Ingratitude, that ill-ill-fauored ill,

In noble breastes hath builded castles strong;

Obliuion setts vp troph’s that still

Bewrayes the filthy vildeness of that wrong:

Ah! minde

Where deu’llish kinde

Ingratitude doth dwell;

That ill

Coequals still

The greatest ill in hell.

On poyson’s filth contagious error spreads,

Heauen’s spotless eyes look as amaz’d with wonder;

Their viprous mindes such raging horror breedes,

To teare religion’s virgin roabes asunder.

What then?

O wicked men,

And hel’s eternal, pray:

Go mourne,

And in time turne

From your erronius way.

What course wants crosse? What kind of state wants strife?

What worldling yet would euer seem content?

What haue we heere in this our thwarting life?

Joy, beautie, honour, loue, like smoak are spent.

I say,

Time goes away,

Without returne againe:

How wise

Who can despise

These worldly vapours vaine!