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Which shewes selfe loue, from which there fewe can scape,
A plague too rife: bewitcheth manie a one.
The ritche, the pore, the learned, and the sotte,
This, makes vs iudge too well of our desertes,
When others smile, our ignorance to see:
And makes vs thinke, our deedes alone to bee.
Which secret sore, lies hidden from our eyes,
And yet the same, an other plainlie sees.
What follie more, what dotage like to this?
And doe we so our owne deuise esteeme?
Or can we see so soone an others misse?
And not our owne? Oh blindnes most extreme.
Affect not then, but trye, and prooue thy deedes,
For of selfe loue, reproche, and shame proceedes.
Poës.
mam speculatus in vndis,
Contemnent alios, arsit
amore sui, &c.
Verum illud verbum est,
vulge quod dici solet
Omnes sibi malle me-
lius esse, quàm alteri.
chrum est. adhuc
neminem cognoui
poëtam, qui sibi non
optimus videretur,
sic tes habet, me de-
lectant mea, te tua.