Ah (thought I) thou mournst in vaine,
None takes pitty on thy paine:
Senslesse trees, they cannot heare thee,
Ruthlesse Beares, they will not cheere thee,
King Paudion, he is dead:
All thy friends are lapt in Lead.
All thy fellow Birds doe sing,
Carelesse of thy sorrowing.
Whilst as fickle Fortune smild,
Thou and I, were both beguild,
Every one that flatters thee,
Is no friend in misery:
Words are easie, like the wind,
Faithfull friends are hard to finde:
Every man will be thy friend,
Whilst thou haste wherewith to spend:
But if store of Crownes be scant,
No man will supply thy want,
If that one be prodigall,
Bountifull they will him call:
And with such like flattering,
Pittie but he were a King.
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will intice.
If to women he be bent,
They have at Commandement
But if Fortune once doe frowne,
Then farewell his great renowne
They that fawnd on him before,
Vse his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeede,
He will helpe thee in thy neede:

If thou sorrow, he will weepe:
If thou awake, he cannot sleepe:
Thus of every greefe, in heart
He, with thee, doth beare a part.
These are certaine signes, to know
Faithfull friend, from flatt'ring foe

Previous section

Next section