Homely breasts doe harbour quiet, (30) little feare, and mickle solace: States suspect their bed and diet, feare and craft doe haunt the Pallace. Little would I, little want I, where the minde and store agreeth, (35) Smallest comfort is not scantie, least he longs that little seeth. Time hath beene that I haue longed, foolish I, to like of folly: To conuerse where honour thronged, (40) to my pleasures linked wholy.
Now I see, and seeing sorrow that the day consum’d, returnes not: Who dare trust vpon to morrow, when nor time, nor life soiournes not?
FINIS. Thom. Lodge.