Ei, qui semel sua prodegerit, aliena credi non oportere
MEDEA loe with infante in her arme,
Whoe kil'de her babes, shee shoulde have loved beste:
The swallowe yet, whoe did suspect no harme,
Hir Image likes, and hatch'd uppon her breste:
And lefte her younge, unto this tirauntes guide,
Whoe, peecemeale did her proper fruicte devide.
Oh foolishe birde, think'ste thow, shee will have care,
Uppon thy yonge? Whoe hathe her owne destroy'de,
And maie it bee, that shee thie birdes should spare?
Whoe slue her owne, in whome shee shoulde have joy'd.
Thow arte deceav'de, and arte a warninge good,
To put no truste, in them that hate theire blood.