To J. T. Esquier.
The bandogge, fitte to matche the bull, or beare,
With burthens greate, is loden every daye:
Or drawes the carte, and forc'd the yoke to weare:
Where littell dogges doe passe their time in playe:
And ofte, are bould to barke, and eeke to bite,
When as before, they trembled at his sighte.
Yet, when in bondes they see his thrauled state,
Eache bragginge curre, beginnes to square, and brall:
The freer sorte, doe wonder at his fate,
And thinke them beste, that are of stature small:
For they maie sleepe uppon their mistris bedde,
And on their lappes, with daynties still bee fedde.
The loftie pine, with axe is overthrowne,
And is prepar'd, to serve the shipmans turne:
When bushes stande, till stormes bee overblowne.
And lightninges flashe, the mountaine toppes doth burne.
All which doe shewe: that pompe, and worldlie power,
Makes monarches, markes: when varriinge fate doth lower.