In prodigos

THE watry willow, growing by the shore,
Of trees the formost, forth her fruite doth send,
But laden with her bee-desired store,
Ere ten daies fully come vnto an end,
Her Palme's so sweete, we lou'd and look't vpon,
With Boreas breath, are blowne away and gone.

To this same tree, did Homer once compare,
Such heires as straight, their Patrimonie wast,
In ri 'tous wise: and such as Artistes are,
Who getting much, doe let it fly as fast:
Eeke such of wit, or wealth, that make a show,
In substance when, we find it nothing so.