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In trust is Treason

The straightest Tree that growes upon one onely roote:
If that roote fayle, wyll quickly fade, no props can do it boote.
I am that fading plant, which on thy grace dyd growe,
Thy grace is gone wherefore I mone, and wither all in woe.
The tallest ship that sailes, if shee too Ancors trust:
When Ancors slip & Cables breake, her helpe lyes in the dust.
I am the ship my selfe, mine Ancor was thy faith:
Which now is fled, thy promise broke, & I am driven to death.
Who climeth oft on hie, and trusts the rotten bowe:
If that bow breake may catch a fall, such state stand I in now.
Me thought I was a loft, and yet my seate full sure:
Thy heart dyd seeme to me a rock which ever might endure.
And see, it was but sand, whome seas of subtiltie:
Have soked so with wanton waves, that faith was forst to flye.
The flooddes of ficklenesse have undermined so.
The first foundation of my joy, that myrth is ebb’d to wo.
Yet at lowe water markes, I lye and wayte my time:
To mend the breach, but all in vaine, it cannot passe the prime.
For when the prime flood comes, which all this rage begoon:
Then waves of wyll do worke so fast, my piles are over roon.
Dutie and dilligence which are my workmen there,
Are glad to take up tooles in haste, and run away for feare.
For fansie hath such force, it overfloweth all,
And whispring tales do blow the blasts, that make it ryse & fall.
Thus in these tempests tost, my restles life doth stand:
Because I builded on thy wo[rd]es, as I was borne in hand.
Thou weart that only stake, wereby I ment to stay:
Alas, alas, thou stoodst so weake, the hedge is borne away.
By thee I thought to live, by thee now must I dye:
I made thee my Phisicion, thou art my mallady.
For thee I longde to live, for thee nowe welcome death:
And welcome be that happie pang, that stops my gasping breath.
Twise happie were that axe, would cut my rotes downe right:
And sacred were that swelling sea, which would consume me quight.
Blest were that bowe would breake to bring downe climing youth,
Which craks aloft, and quakes full oft, for feare of thine untruth.

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In trust is Treason - GEORGE GASCOIGNE