Frailtie.

LOrd, in my silence how do I despise
What upon trust
Is styled honour, riches, or fair eyes;
But is fair dust!
I surname them guilded clay,
Deare earth, fine grasse or hay;
In all, I think my foot doth ever tread
Upon their head.

…t when I view abroad both Regiments;
The worlds, and thine:
…ine clad with simplenesse, and sad events;
The other fine,
Full of glorie and gay weeds,
Brave language, braver deeds:
…hat which was dust before, doth quickly rise,
And prick mine eyes.

… brook not this, lest if what even now
My foot did tread,
…ffront those joyes, wherewith thou didst endow,
And long since wed
My poore soul, ev'n sick of love:
It may a Babel prove
Commodious to conquer heav'n and thee
Planted in me.