[♦] King did I call thee? no, thou art not king,
[♦] Not fit to govern and rule multitudes,
[95] Which darest not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor.
That head of thine doth not become a crown;
Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer’s staff,
And not to grace an awful princely sceptre.
[♦] That gold must round engirt these brows of mine,
[100] Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles’ spear,
Is able with the change to kill and cure.
Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up