In exile then my youthful yeares were spent,
At my retourne his fault he did confesse,
And from his crowne the crowne in haste I sent:
Then my delight was in the diery dent
Of wrackful warre, but nowe transformde I stande,
The auncient oke must growe nowe lyke a wande.
8.
I marueilde muche how Cireus[1201] songes might please,
But now I muse that Circes sorcery,
Doth not from euery man bereaue his ease: