In eos qui multa promittunt, et nihil praestant
The crying babe, the mother sharply threates,
Except he ceas'd, he shoulde to wolfe bee throwne:
Which being hard, the wolfe at windowe waites,
And made account that child should bee his owne:
Till at the lengthe, agayne he hard her say
Feare not sweete babe, thou shalt not bee his pray.
For, if he come in hope to sucke thy blood,
Wee wil him kill, before he shall departe:
With that the wolfe retorned to the wood,
And did exclayme thus wise with heavie hart:
Oh Jupiter? what people now doe live,
That promise much, and yet will nothing give.