To laugh, to lie, to flatter to face, Foure waies in court to win men's grace.
A mere court butterfly, That flutters in the pageant of a monarch.
There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.
To shake with laughter ere the jest they hear, To pour at will the counterfeited tear; And, as their patron hints the cold or heat, To shake in dog-days, in December sweat.
At the throng'd levee bends the venal tribe: With fair but faithless smiles each varnish'd o'er, Each smooth as those that mutually deceive, And for their falsehood each despising each.
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