Him his nobilitie so foule deface;
A sweet regard, and amiable grace,
Mixed with manly sternnesse did appeare
Yet sleeping, in his well proportiond face,
And on his tender lips the downy heare
Did now but freshly spring, and silken blossomes beare.
His warlike armes, the idle instruments lxxx
Of sleeping praise, were hong vpon a tree,
And his braue shield, full of old moniments,
Was fowly ra’st, that none the signes might see;