The mightie monarch of a royall realme,
Swaying his scepter with a princely pompe,
Of his desires cannot so steare the healme,
But sometime falls into a deadly dumpe;
When as he heares the shrilly sounding trumpe
Of forren enemies, or home-bred foes,
His minde of griefe, his hart is full of woes.
Or when bad subjects gainst their soveraigne
(Like hollow harts) unnaturally rebell,
How carefull is he to suppresse againe
Their desperate forces, and their powers to quell
With loyall harts, till all againe be well.
When (being subdu'd) his care is rather more,
To keepe them under, than it was before.
Thus is he never full of sweete content,
But either this or that his joy debars:
Now noblemen gainst noblemen are bent,
Now gentlemen and others fall at jarrs:
Thus is his countrey full of civill warrs;
He still in danger sits, still fearing death,
For traitors seeke to stop their princes breath.
The whylst the other hath no enemie,
Without it be the wolfe and cruell fates,
(Which no man spare): when as his disagree,
He with his sheephooke knaps them on the pates,
Schooling his tender lambs from wanton gates.
Beasts are more kinde than men, sheepe seeke not blood,
But countrey caytives kill their countreyes good.
The courtier he fawns for his princes favour,
In hope to get a princely ritch reward;
His tongue is tipt with honey for to glaver,
Pride deales the deck, whilst chance doth choose the card;
Then comes another and his game hath mard,
Sitting betwixt him and the morning sun;
Thus night is come before the day is done.
Some courtiers, carefull of their princes health,
Attend his person with all dilligence;
Whose hand's their hart, whose welfare is their wealth,
Whose safe protection is their sure defence,
For pure affection, not for hope of pence:
Such is the faithfull hart, such is the minde,
Of him that is to vertue still inclinde.
The skilfull scholler, and brave man at armes,
First plies his booke, last fights for countries peace;
Th' one feares oblivion, th' other fresh alarmes:
His paines nere ende, his travailes never cease;
His with the day, his with the night increase:
He studies how to get eternall fame,
The souldier fights to win a glorious name.
The knight, the squire, the gentleman, the clowne,
Are full of crosses and calamities,
Lest fickle fortune should begin to frowne,
And turne their mirth to extreame miseries,
Nothing more certaine than incertainties!
Fortune is full of fresh varietie,
Constant in nothing but inconstancie.
The wealthie merchant that doth crosse the seas,
To Denmarke, Poland, Spaine, and Barbarie,
For all his ritches, lives not still at ease;
Sometimes he feares ship-spoyling pyracie,
Another while deceipt and treacherie
Of his owne factors in a forren land;
Thus doth he still in dread and danger stand.
Well is he tearmd a merchant-venturer,
Since he doth venter lands, and goods and all;
When he doth travell for his traffique far,
Little he knowes what fortune may befall,
Or rather, what mis-fortune happen shall:
Sometimes he splits his ship against a rocke,
Loosing his men, his goods, his wealth, his stocke.