The fruites of fained frendes.
In choise of frends what hap had I, to chuse one of Cirenes kind,
Whose harpe, whose pipe, whose melodie, could feede my eares & make me blinde:
Whose pleasant voice made me forget, that in sure trust was great deceit.
In trust I see is treason founde, and man to man deceitfull is,
And whereas Treasure doeth abounde, of flatterers there doe not misse:
Whose painted speache, and outward showe, doe seme as frends and be not so.
Would I have thought in thee to be, the nature of the Crokadill,
Which if a man a slepe maie see, with bloudy thirst desires to kill:
And then with teares a while gan wepe, the death of hym thus slaine a slepe.
O flatterer false, thou traitor borne, what mischief more might thou deuise,
Then thy deare frende, to haue in scorne, and hym to wounde in sondrie wise:
Which still a frende pretends to be, and art not so by profe I se.
Fie, fie, upon such trechery.
Finis.
W. H.
If such false Shippes doe haunte the shore
Strike downe the saile and trust no more.
M. Edwardes.
