The wicked brood of my degenerate pride,
I will no longer vilifie thy rimes:
Thou now to tell what after did betide
Vnto the house of fame, thy muse must guide,
And mount her thoughts to th’highest pitch of glorie,
In loftie straine to sing my golden storie.
23.
No sooner was the kingdome’s scepter seene
In my right royall hand, but that in mind
Transform’d I was from what I once had beene,