Now when the Syren sings, as one dismaid,
I straight with waxe begin to stop mine eares;
And when the Crocadile doth shed foorth teares,
I flie away, for feare to be betraid.
I know when as thou seem'st to waile my state,
Thy face is no true table of thy mind:
And thou wouldst neuer shew thy selfe so kind,
Wert not thy thoughts are hatching some deceit:
Whil'st with vaine hopes thou go'st about to fill me.
I wot whereto those drams of fauour tend;
Lest by my death thy cruelties should end,
Thou think'st by giuing life againe to kill me:
No, no, thou shalt not thus thy greatnesse raise,
Ile breake the trumpet that proclaim'd thy praise.