"O trustlesse state of miserable men, That builde your blis on hope of earthly thing, And vainly thinke your selves halfe happie then, When painted faces with smooth flattering 200 Doo fawne on you, and your wide praises sing; And, when the courting masker louteth* lowe, Him true in heart and trustie to you trow!

Where they in darknesse and dread horror dwell, 90 Hating the happie light from which they fell.

Whatever ill before he did aby*: Had it beene death, yet would he die againe, To live thus happie as her grace to gaine.