And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years

Folly in youth is sin, in age 'tis madness.

Princes in this case Do hate the traitor, though they love the treason.

And you shall find the greatest enemy A man can have is his prosperity.

But years hath done this wrong, To make me write too much, and live too long.

For 'tis some ease our sorrows to reveal, If they to whom we shall impart our woes, Seem but to feel a part of what we feel, And meet us with a sigh, but at the close.

The absent danger greater still appears; Less fears he who is near the thing he fears.