Where are all thy beauties now, all harts enchayning?
Whither are thy flatt'rers gone with all their fayning ?
All fled ; and thou alone still here remayning.

Thy rich state of twisted gold to Bayes is turned ;
Cold, as thou art, are thy loues, that so much burned :
Who dye in flatt'rers armes are seldome mourned.

Yet, in spight of enuie, this be still proclaymed,
That none worthyer then thy selfe thy worth hath blamed ;
When their poore names are lost, thou shalt liue famed.

When thy story, long time hence, shall be perused,
Let the blemish of thy rule be thus excused,
None euer liu'd more iust, none more abused.