The anatomie of humors: vvritten by Simion Grahame

TO THE ESTATE OF VVORLDLIE ESTATES.

Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis.

EAch hath his Time whom Fortune will aduance, Whose fickle wheel runs restlesse round about Some flatt'ring lye oft changeth others chance Dangers deceipt in guiltie hearts breeds doubt. It's seene What yet hath beene With tract of time to passe, And change Of Fortune strange At last hath turn'd their glasse.

Enuie triumph's on tops of high Estate All over-hung with veiles of feigned show. Man climbes aboue the course of such conceate That loftie-like, they loath to looke below. And what? All's hazard that Wee seeke on Diceto set, For some To height's doe come Then falls in dangers net.

The gallant man, if poore, hee's thought a wretch, His vertue rare is held in high disdaine, The greatest Foole is wise, if he be ritch And wisedome flowes from his lunatick braine. Thus see Rare sprit's to bee Of no account at all. Disgrace Hath got such place Each joyes at others fall.

The brib'rous minde who makes a God of gould, He scornes to plead without he haue reward, Then poore mens suites at highest rates are sould, Whil'st Au'rice damn'd, nor Ruth hath no regard. For heere He hath no feare Of Gods consuming curse His gaines Doth pull with paines Plagues from the poore mans purse.

The furious flames of Sodom's sodaine fire, With feruent force consume vain Pride to nought, With wings of wax let soaring him aspire Aboue the starres of his ambitious thought. And so When he doth go On top of Prides high glory Then shall His sodaine fall Become the worlds sad Story.

Ingratitude that ill, ill-favour'd Ill In noble breasts hath builded Castles strong, Oliuion sets-vp the Troph's that still Bewrayes the filthy vildnesse of that wrong. Ah minde Where deu'lish kinde Ingratitude doth dwell That Ill Coequals still The greatest Ill in hell.

On poysons filth contagious Error spreads, Heau'ns spotlesse eyes looks as amaz'd with wōder, Their Vip'rous mindes such raging horror breeds To teare Religions virgin-roabes asunder. What then O wicked men And Hels eternall pray Goe mourne And in time turne From your erronious way.

What course wants crosse? what kind of state wants strife? vvhat worldling yet could euer seem cōtent? What haue we heere in this our thwarting life? Ioy, Beautie, Honour, Loue, like smoak are spent. I say Time goe's away Without returne againe How wise! Who can despise These worldly vapours vaine.

FINIS.