No countrey’s loue, no kinred holden kinde,
No feare of God, no sentence wise of force
To turne the harte, or mollify the minde:
Good words are counted wasting of your wynde.
The gayne proposde, the crowne and scepter hye,
Are th’only thinges whereat men gaze and prye.
18.
At length my brother for to ende the strife,
Thought best to worke the surest way to winne:
He founde the meanes to take away my life,