And threwe mee out my limes yet trembling hot.
7.
Can I complayne of this reuenge shee raught,
Sith I procurde hir wrath by slaughter[538] of hir sonne?
Can I excuse my selfe deuoyde of faut,
Which my deare Prince and brother had fordonne?
No; ’tis to true that, who so slayes a King,
Incurrs reproch, and slaughter bloud doth bring.
8.
The traytours to their Prince haue alwayes binne