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The poems of William Habington

Edited with introduction and commentary by Kenneth Allott

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Quid gloriaris in malicia? DAVID.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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134

Quid gloriaris in malicia? DAVID.

Swell no more proud man, so high!
For enthron'd where ere you sit
Rais'd by fortune, sinne and wit:
In a vault thou dust must lye.
He who's lifted up by vice
Hath a neighb'ring precipice
Dazeling his distorted eye.
Shallow is that unsafe sea
Over which you spread your saile:
And the Barke you trust to, fraile
As the Winds it must obey.
Mischiefe, while it prospers, brings
Favour from the smile of Kings;
Vselesse soone is throwne away.
Profit, though sinne it extort,
Princes even accounted good,
Courting greatnesse nere withstood,
Since it Empire doth support.
But when death makes them repent
They condemne the instrument,
And are thought Religious for 't.
Pitch'd downe from that height you beare,
How distracted will you lye;
When your flattering Clients flye
As your fate infectious were?
When of all th' obsequious throng
That mov'd by your eye and tongue,
None shall in the storme appeare?

135

When that abject insolence
(Which submits to the more great,
And disdaines the weaker state,
As misfortune were offence)
Shall at Court be judged a crime
Though in practise, and the Time
Purchase wit at your expence.
Each small tempest shakes the proud;
Whose large branches vainely sprout
'Bove the measure of the roote.
But let stormes speake nere so loud,
And th' astonisht day benight;
Yet the just shines in a light
Faire as noone without a cloud.