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THE Poëttes faine, that
Inioyned are to fill the fatall tonne:
Where, thowghe they toile, yet are they not the neare,
But as they powre, the water forthe dothe runne:
No paine will serue, to fill it to the toppe,
For, still at holes the same doth runne, and droppe.
Which reprehendes, three sortes of wretches vaine,
The blabbe, th'ingrate, and those that couet still,
As first the blabbe, no secretts can retaine.
Th'ingrate, not knowes to vse his frendes good will.
The couetous man, thowghe he abounde with store,
Is not suffis'de, but couetts more and more.