The thre first bookes of Ouids De Tristibvs :: :: University of Virginia Library

All voyde of griefe God graunt thou may, last ende of life attayne,
Which as a frend to reade this worke, of mine, dost not disdaine.
And here I wyshe my prayers might, preuayle for thy behoue,
Which for my selfe the cruell Gods, to mercye could not moue.
In nomber thicke thy frendes will come, while hap hanges on thy syde,
If stormye cloudes of time appeare, alone thou shalt abyde.
Behold how doues to house resort, in whitlye coullors cladde,
In beastly boure of sluttishe cotte, no byrd abydeth gladde.
The painefull pismeere neuer comes, in barne left voyde and bare,
No frend repayres where goodes before, be cleane consumde with care.
When Sonne doth shyne the shadowe shewes, of them that walke abrode,
When it lyeth hid in cloude he list, no longer make abode.
The vnconstant sort of people so, do follow fortunes light,
Which quenched once wt houering showre, they straight do take their flight.
And would to God thou might perceyue, that falselye this do sound,
But I must needes confesse them true, by fortune that I found.
While we did stande in perfect state, our house desyrde no fame,
But yet was knowen and had resort, as did suffice the same.
But when it first began to shake, they feared sore the fall,
And wilye backs to fleing turnd, to saue themselues withall.
No maruayle though they feare the flash, of lightning cruell flame,
By fyre of which all thinges is wont, consume that neare it came.
But Cæsar yet among his foes, that frende doth well allow,
Which doth not shrinke but tarye still, when fortune bendes her brow.
No wonted vse he hath to fume (no man is more modest)
If he which loude to louer still, in troubleous time is prest.
The fame doth tell how Thoas king, on Pylades did rew,
When as by mate of Gretian lande, Orestes once he knew.
Patroclus parfit fayth which was, with great Achilles knit,
Was wont full oft wyth worthy prayse, in Hectors mouth to sit.
They saye because that Thesius, wyth frende of his did pas,
Amonge the Princes blacke of hel, their God full sorrye was.
Wee may beleeue O Turnus that, thy cheekes wyth teares were wet,
When thou harde of Euralius, and Nysus faythes so set.
In wretches eke there is a loue, in foes which we approue,
O heauye hap so fewe there be, which wyth my wordes I moue.
Such is the state and chaunce of mee, and of my matters all,
That nothing ought my teares to stoppe, from sorye face to fall.