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Epigram. 75. Honores mutant mores.
VVhen I and some of my Com-rades were poore,
O Lord how wee lou'd one another then,
Wee lou'd as, I thought, no men could loue more;
But, since the most of them are growne rich men,
And I sticke fast still to my pouerty,
They flye from mee and or I am skarse knowne,
Or quite forgotten, what an Asse am I,
The case is partly mine, but more their owne:
And their offence may well forgiuen bee,
That haue forgot themselues as well as me.
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