Vpon me now as violently ceaze,

By which I lastly perisht by my skill,

On mine owne necke returning (as my due)

That heauie yoke wherein by me they drew.

116.

My greatnesse threatned by ill-boding eyes,

My actions strangely censured of all,

Yet in my way my giddines not sees

The pit, wherein I likely was to fall:

O were the sweets of man’s felicities