That with the vulgar vilely I should die,
What thing so strange of Cromwell is not told?
What man more prais’d? who more condemn’d then I?
That with the world when I am waxed old,
Most t’were vnfit that fame of me should lie
With fables vaine my historie to fill,
Forcing my good, excusing of my ill.
3.
You, that but hearing of my hated name,
Your ancient malice instantly bewray,