from a translation of chaucer's troilus and criseyde

[litsa2]

How short a time, lament it as we may,
Such joy continues under Fortune's rule,
She that seems truest when about to slay,
And tunes her song, beguiling to a fool,
To bind and blind and make of him her tool,
The common traitress! From her wheel she throws
Him down, and laughs at him with mops and mows.

[in other words, what goes up, must come down.]