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[The Sea hath many thousand sands]
[1]
The Sea hath many thousand sands,
The Sunne hath motes as many,
The skie is full of starres
And loue as full of woes as an-ny,
Beleeue me that doe knowe the elfe,
And make no Tryall by thy selfe.
2
It is in trueth a prettie toye,
For babes to play withall,
But O the honies of our youth,
Are oft our ages gall,
Selfe proofe in time will make thee know,
He was a Prophet told thee so.
3
A Prophet that Cassandra like,
Tels trueth without beliefe,
For head-strong youth will runne his race,
Although his Goale be griefe,
Loues Martyr when his heate is past,
Prooues cares Confessor at the last.
