Your bragynge bost, your royal aray, 160
Your beard so brym as bore at bay,
Your Seuen Systers, that gun so gay,
All haue ye lost and cast away.
Thus fortune hath tourned you, I dare well saye,
Now from a kynge to a clot of clay:
Out of your[718] robes ye were shaked,
And wretchedly ye lay starke naked.[719]
For lacke of grace hard was your hap:
The Popes curse[720] gaue you that clap.