How high a poor man showes in low estate
Whose base is firme, and whole frame competent,
That sees this Cedar, made the shrub of fate,
Th’on’s little, lasting: Th’other’s confluence spent.
And as lightning comes behind the thunder
From the torn cloud, yet first invades our sense,
So every violent fortune, that to wonder
Hoists men aloft, is a cleere evidence
Of a vaunt-curring blow the fates have given
To his forst state: swift lightning blindes his eyes,
While thunder from comparison-hating heaven
Dischargeth on his height, and there it lies:
If men will shun swolne Fortunes ruinous blastes,
Let them use Temperance. Nothing violent lastes.