The nightingale for all his mery voice,
Nor yet the larke that stil delightes to syng,
Did never make the hearers so rejoyce,
As I with wordes have made this worthy kyng.
I never jar'd; in tune was every stryng;
I tempered so my tounge to please his eare,
That what I sayd was currant every where.
I joyn'd my talke, my gestures, and my grace
In wittie frames that long might last and stand,
So that I brought the kyng in such a case,
That to his death I was his chiefest hand.
I governed him that ruled all this land:
I bare the sword though he did weare the crowne,
I strake the stroke that threwe the mightye downe.
Yf justice sayd that judgment was but death,
With my sweet wordes I could the kyng perswade,
And make him pause and take therein a breath
Tyl I with suyte the fawtor's peace had made:
I knewe what waye to use him in his trade;
I had the arte to make the lyon meeke;
There was no poynt wherein I was to seeke.
Yf I did frowne, who then did looke awrye?
Yf I did smyle, who would not laugh outryght?
YfI but spake, who durst my wordes denye ?
Yf I pursued, who would forsake the flyght?
I meane my power was knowen to every wyght,
On such a heyght good hap had buylt my bower,
As though my swete should never have turn'd to sower.
My husband then, as one that knewe his good,
Refus'd to kepe a prynces concubine,
Forseing the ende and mischiefe as it stoode,
Agaynst the king did never much repyne;
He sawe the grape whereof he dranke the wyne,
Though inward thought his hart did still torment,
Yet outwardly he seemde he was content.
To purchase prayse and winne the people's zeale,
Yea rather bente of kinde to do some good,
I ever did upholde the common weale;
I had delyght to save the gylteless bloud:
Each suter's cause when that I understoode,
I did preferre as it had bene mine owne,
And helpt them up, that might have bene o'erthrown.
My power was prest to ryght the poore man's wrong;
My handes were free to geve where nede requyred;
To watche for grace I never thought it long;
To do men good I nede not be desyred;
Nor yet with gyftes my hart was never hyred.
But when the ball was at my foote to guyde,
I played to those that fortune did abide.
My want was wealth, my woe was ease at wyll,
My robes were ryche, and braver than the sonne:
My fortune then was far above my skyll,
My state was great, my glasse did ever runne,
My fatal threede so happely was spunne,
That then I sat in earthly pleasures clad,
And for the time a goddesse place I had.
But I had not so sone this lyef possest,
But my good happe began to slyp asyde;
And fortune then did me so sore molest,
That unto playntes was turned all my pride.
It booted not to rowe agaynst the tyde:
Myne oares were weke, my hart and strength did fayle; The wynd was rough; I durst not bear a sayle.
What steppes of stryef belonge to highe estate?
The clymynge up is doubtfull to indure;
The seate itselfe doth purchase privie hate,
And honour's fame is fyckle and unsure,
And all she brynges, is flowres that be
unpure:
Which fall as fast as they do sprout and spring;
And cannot last, they are so vayne a thyng.
We count no care to catche that we do wyshe,
But what we wynne is long to us unknowen;
Til present payne be served in our dyshe,
We skarce perceyve whereon our gryefe hath growen.
What grayne proves wel that is so rashely sowen?
Yf that a meane dyd measure all our deedes,
Instead of corne we should not gather weedes.
The settled minde is free from Fortune's power;
They nede not feare who looke not up aloft ;
But they that clyme are carefull every hower,
For when they fall they light not very softe :
Examples hath the wisest warned ofte,
That where the trees the smallest braunches bere,
The stormes do blowe and have most rigor there.
Where is it strong but nere the ground and roote?
Where is it weake but on the hyghest sprayes?
Where may a man so surely set his foote,
But on those bowes that groweth lowe alwayes?
The little twigges are but unstedfast stayes;
Yf they breake not, they bend with every blast;
Who trustes to them shal never stand full fast.
The wynde is great upon the hyghest hilles;
The quiete life is in the dale belowe,
Who treades on yse shal slide agaynst theyr wylles,
They want no care that curious arts would knowe;
Who lives at ease and can content him so,
Is perfect wise, and settes us all to scoole ;
Who hates this lore may wel be called a foole.
What greater gryefe may come to any lyfe,
Than after sweete to taste the bitter sower?
Or after peace to fall at warre and stryfe,
Or after myrth to have a cause to lower?
Under such proppes false Fortune buylds her tower;
On sodayne chaunge her flitting frames be set,
Where is no way for to escape her net.
The hastye smart that Fortune sendes in spyte,
Is hard to brooke where gladnes we imbrace,
She threatens not, but sodaynly doth smyte;
Where joye is moste, there doth she sorowe place,
But sure I thinke, this is to strange a case,
For us to feele such gryefe amyd our game,
And know not why until we taste the same.
As earst I sayd, my blisse was turnde to bale,
I had good cause to weepe and wryng my handes,
And showe sad cheare with countenance full pale,
For I was brought in sorowe's woful bandes:
A pyrrie came and set my shippe on sandes ;
What should I hide, and colour care and noye?
King Edward dyed, in whom was all my joye.
And when the earth receyved had his corse,
And that in tombe, this worthye prince was layd,
The world on me began to shewe his force;
Of troubles then my parte I long assayed;
For they, of whom I never was afrayed,
Undyd me most, and wrought me such despyte,
That they bereft from me my pleasure quyte.
As long as life remaynd in Edwardes brest,
Who was but I? who had such frendes at call?
His body was no sooner put in chest,
But wel was him that could procure my
His brother was mine enemy most of all,
Protector then, whose vice did stil abound,.
From yll to worse, tyll death dyd him confound.
He falsly fayned that I of counsayle was
To poyson him, which thing I never ment,
But he could set thereon a face of brasse,
To bring to passe his lewde and false entent,
To such mischiefe this Tyrantes heart was bent.
To God, ne man, he never stoode in awe.
For in his wrath he made his wyll a lawe,
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