Of NIOBE, behoulde the ruthefull plighte,
Bicause shee did dispise the powers devine:
Her children all, weare slaine within her sighte,
And, while her selfe with tricklinge teares did pine,
Shee was transform'de, into a marble stone,
Which, yet with teares, dothe seeme to waile, and mone.
This tragedie, thoughe Poëtts first did frame,
Yet maie it bee, to everie one applide:
That mortall men, shoulde thinke from whence they came,
And not presume, nor puffe them up with pride,
Leste that the Lorde, whoe haughty hartes doth hate,
Doth throwe them downe, when sure they thinke theyr state.