And promise many marueiles more.
Yet sith it swarues from Nature’s will,
As much as these that I recite:
Refuse the fondnes of such skill,
Doth ay with death the proufe requite.
I deemde I could more soner frame,
My selfe to flye then birdes of wood:
And ment to get eternall fame,
Which I esteemde the greatest good.
I deckt my selfe with plumes and wynges,