No maruell then, me thought, it was, that in this booke I read,
So many a prince I found exempt, as if their names been dead,
Who for desert amongst the best a place might iustly claime:
But who can put on any spirit to memorize the name
Of any dead, whose thanklesse race t’whom learning shapes the leg
In humble wise, yet in contempt bids learned wits go beg?
As thus in bed with booke in hand I sate contemplating,
The humorous night was waxed olde, still silence husht each thing,
The clocke chim’d twelue, to which as I with listning eares attend,
As signes of fraile mortalitie all things I apprehend;