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 Falls headlong downe into that pit of woe, Fit for such damned creatures ouerthrow. To make this publicke that obscured lies, And more apparant vulgar secrecies: To make this plaine, harsh vnto common wits, Simplicitie in common iudgement sits. This down-cast angell, or declining saint, Is greedy Croone, when Cron makes his compt: For his poore creditors faine to decay, Being bankerouts, take heeles and run away. Then franticke Cron, gald to the very hart, In some by corner playes a diuels part: Repining at the losse of so much pelfe, And in a humor goes and hangs himselfe. So of a saint, a diuell Cron is made, The diuel lou'd Cron, and Cron the diuels trade. Thus may you see such angels often fall, Making a working day a festiuall. Now to the third point of his deitie, And that's th' earth, thus reasons credulitie: