They misse the marke that shoote theyr arrowes wide,
They hit the pricke that make theyr flight to glaunce
So nere the white, that shafte may light on chaunce.
18.
Such was my lucke I shot no shafte in vayne,
My bow stoode bent and brased all the yeere:
I wayted harde but neuer lost my payne:
Such wealth came in to beare the charges cleere:
And in the end, I was the greatest peere
Among them all, for I so rulde the land,