Which shewes, though fate May promise still to warme our lippes, And keepe our eyes from an ecclips; It will our pride with teares abate. Poor silly flowre! Though in thy beauty thou presume, And breath which doth the spring perfume; Thou may'st be cropt this very houre. And though it may Then thy good fortune be, to rest Oth' pillow of some Ladies brest; Thou'lt whither, and be throwne away. For 'tis thy doome However, that there shall appeare No memory that thou grew'st heere, Ere the tempestuous winter come. But flesh is loath By meditation to fore see How loath'd a nothing it must be: Proud in the triumphes of its growth. And tamely can Behold this mighty world decay And weare by th' age of time away: Yet not discourse the fall of man. But Madam these Are thoughts to cure sicke humane pride. And med'cines are in vaine applyed. To bodies far 'bove all disease. For you so live As th' Angels in one perfect state; Safe from the ruines of our fate, By vertues great preservative. And though we see Beautie enough to warme each heart; Yet you by a chaste Chimicke Art, Calcine fraile love to pietie. _Quid gloriaris in malicia?_ DAVID. Swell no more proud man, so high! For enthron'd where ere you sit Rais'd by fortune, sinne and wit: In a vault thou dust must lye. He who's lifted up by vice Hath a neighb'ring precipice Dazeling his distorted eye. Shallow is that unsafe sea Over which you spread your saile: And the Barke you trust to, fraile As the Winds it must obey. Mischiefe, while it prospers, brings Favour from the smile of Kings; Uselesse soone is throwne away. Profit, though sinne it extort, Princes even accounted good, Courting greatnesse nere withstood, Since it Empire doth support. But when death makes them repent They condemne the instrument, And are thought Religious for 't. Pitch'd downe from that height you beare, How distracted will you lye; When your flattering Clients flye As your fate infectious were? When of all th' obsequious throng That mov'd by your eye and tongue, None shall in the storme appeare? When that abject insolence (Which submits to the more great, And disdaines the weaker state, As misfortune were offence) Shall at Court be judged a crime Though in practise, and the Time Purchase wit at your expence. Each small tempest shakes the proud; Whose large branches vainely sprout 'Bove the measure of the roote. But let stormes speake nere so loud, And th' astonisht day benight; Yet the just shines in a light Faire as noone without a cloud. _Deus Deus Meus._ DAVID.