Though hatred dyd not make mee kyll my kyng,
Yet lucre lewde dyd force my feete to swarue,
That hatefull hap mee to this bale dyd bring:
Let them then learne that heedlesse liue by hope,
Her hatefull hestes wyll bring them to the rope:
And happy he, who voyde of hope can leade
A quiet lyfe, all voyd of fortune’s dread.
44.
Perillus, he who made the bull of brasse,
Lyke him I hopte to haue some great rewarde,