This showes the vanitie of some hopes.

WHo liu's in hope, doeth dye in deepe dispaire,
He lackes that looks, how luckie lotts doe light:
Thei feele foule storms, that hopes for weather faire,
And want cleere daie, that waites to scape the night.
Hope hates his state, and present fitte he feels,
And gropes for chaunce, at churlishe Fortunes heel's.

He showes some greef, that after medson seekes,
And pleadeth paine, that prouls for pleasure sweete:
Who hopes for foode, doeth goe with hongrie cheekes,
And hangs doune hedde, as one that wanteth spreete.
Although Dispaire, is neighbour nexte the worste,
Who holdes by Hope, is more then halfe a curste.

Full long the birde, in cage on hope maie feede,
The Galley slaue, the self same cace maie pleade:
Hope comes to late, to sutche as stande in neede,
The happlesse hath, a Laborinth to treade.
In daungers grace, thei stande amid the flood,
Full farre from helpe, when hope can doe no good.

If haste make waste, and fall on point of knife,
Or sworde through harte, vnto the hilts dorth ronne:
In sutche extremes, what hope is left of life,
Or where in deede, for harmes should helpe be wonne.
The banks broke doune, the streame and flood flies out,
And nothyng staies, behinde for hope nor doubt.

The prisner maie, that is condempde to dye,
For pardon hope, and yet to hangyng goe:
A mischeef comes, whils men for mercie crie,
As horse doeth starue, whils that the gresse doeth growe.
Hope seru's you knowe, to heaue vp harts on height,
That flatte on floer, maie Fortune strike them streight.