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[VI. Your fond preferments are but Childrens toyes]

Your fond preferments are but Childrens toyes

Your fond preferments are but Childrens toyes, And as a shadow all your pleasures passe, As yeares increase, so waining are your ioyes, Your blisse is brittle, brittle, like a broken glasse, Death is the salue that ceaseth all anoy, Death is the port by which we saile to ioy, Death is the port by which we saile to ioy.