THE fickle seat whereon proud Fortune sits, The restless globe whereon the Fury stands, Bewrays her fond and far inconstant fits; The fruitful horn she handleth in her hands Bids all beware to fear her flattering smiles, That giveth most when most she meaneth guiles; The wheel that, turning, never taketh rest, The top whereof fond worldlings count their bliss, Within a minute makes a black exchange, And then the vile and lowest better is: Which emblem tells us the inconstant state Of such as trust to Fortune or to Fate. |