See here by this the tickle trust of time: The false affiance of each mortal force; The wavering weight of fates: the fickle trace, That fortune trips; the many mocks of life; The cheerless change, the easeless brunts and broils, That man abides, the restless race he runs. But most of all, see here the peerless pains: The lasting pangs, the stintless griefs, the tears: The sighs, the groans, the fears, the hopes, the hates: The thoughts and cares, that kingly pomp imparts. What follies, then, bewitch th’ ambitious minds, That thirst for sceptre’s pomp, the well of woes! Whereof (alas!) should wretched man be proud, Whose first conception is but sin, whose birth But pain, whose life but toil, and needs must die? See here the store of great Pendragon’s brood, The t’one quite dead, the t’other hastening on; As men, the son but green, the sire but ripe, Yet both forestall’d, ere half their race were run! As kings, the mightiest monarchs of this age, Yet both suppressed and vanquished by themselves. Such is the brittle breath of mortal man, Whiles human nature works her daily wracks: Such be the crazed crests of glorious crowns, Whiles worldly powers like sudden puffs do pass. And yet for one that goes, another comes; Some born, some dead: so still the store endures. So that both fates and common care provide, That men must needs be born, and some must rule. Wherefore, ye peers and lordings, lift aloft, And whosoe’er in thrones that judge your thralls, Let not your sovereignty heave you too high, Nor their subjection press them down too low. It is not pride that can augment your power, Nor lowly looks that long can keep them safe. The fates have found a way whereby, ere long, The proud must leave their hope, the meek their fear. Whoe’er received such favour from above, That could assure one day unto himself? Him whom the morning found both stout and strong, The evening left all grovelling on the ground. This breath and heat, wherewith man’s life is fed, Is but a flash or flame, that shines a while, And once extinct is, as it ne’er had been. Corruption hourly frets the body’s frame; Youth tends to age, and age to death by kind. Short is the race, prefixed is the end; Swift is the time, wherein man’s life doth run: But by his deeds t’extend renowm and fame, That only virtue works, which never fades. FINIS. Thomas Hughes. _Sat citò, si sat benè: utcunque, Quoad non dat spes, dat optio._ Hereafter follow such speeches as were penned by others, and pronounced instead of some of the former speeches penned by Thomas Hughes.