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To his Lord and Master to be ware of envy.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

To his Lord and Master to be ware of envy.

Deepe danger lyes (deare Lord) in smoothest looks,
Envy is false, and waits thee at thy back:
The poysning bare is hung at golden hooks,
They serue as friends that fane wold see thy wrack.
Envy awaits on vertue as her slaue,
Yet still delights in digging vertues graue.
O pale Envy, the ouldest childe of Pryd,
The Dame of Murther, Treasons onely nurse,
Of glore the stane, of squint-ey'd fraud the bryd:
The blesse of Hell, and Heavens cheefest curse.
God grant my Lord be harmeles from thy hate,
Thy blood thy drink, thine owne heart be thy meat.