And now, O mighty king, to you my talk I convey;
Because you gave me leave my worldly things to stay,
To requite that good turn, ere I die, for your behalf this I say,
Although your regal state dame Fortune decketh so,
That like a king in worldly wealth abundantly ye flow,
Yet fickle is the ground whereon all tyrants tread,
A thousand sundry cares and fears do haunt their restless head:
No trusty band, no faithful friends do guard thy hateful state,
And why? whom men obey for deadly fear, sure them they deadly hate.
That you may safely reign, by love get friends, whose constant faith