In eum qui sibi ipsi damnum apparat
The ravening wolfe, by kinde my mortall foe,
Yet lo, infors'de, I foster up her whelpe:
Who afterwarde, as it did stronger growe,
Thoughe as my owne, I longe the same did helpe:
Yet, coulde I not contente it with my teate,
But that my selfe, hee rent to be his meate.
No willinge minde, to please him might suffise,
No dilligence, to geve the tyraunte sucke,
Though whelpishe daies, his nature did disguise,
Yet time at lengthe unto my evell lucke,
Bewray'de his harte, a warninge good to those,
Whoe in theire howse, doe foster up theire foes.
For, thoughe throughe neede they frendlie seeme a while,
Or childishe yeares, do cloke their cancker'd minde,
Althoughe some doe, releeve them in exile,
And spend theire goodes, in hope to alter kinde:
Yet all theire love, and care to doe them good,
Suche will forgett, and seeke to spill theire blood.