“To deale with thee I _Cæsar_ might disdayne, My tryple mace dooth rule the worlde you see, Thou subiect art the meanest of the traine, Whom conquest hath compeld to wayte on me: A meaner knyght were meete to match with thee, Yet, I myselfe, with al my hart doo dayne, To reue thy life, and cause thee to complayne.” 43. Then I whose hart was al beglarde with glee, To _Cæsar_ sayd: “If fate hath framde my foyle, If now the last of all my lyfe I see, It shal delight that _Cæsar_ dyd me spoyle, And that his blade did cause my bloudy broyle.” And whilst I ment a longer speache to make, A storme most straunge constraynd the earth to quake. 44. Straunge sundry fightes, then sodaynly wer seene, The lightsome day was turnde to lothsome night; Then darknesse did affright me much with feare, The seemly sunne did lose her louing lyght: And that which would amaze eche worldly wight, The thundring heauens constraynde the earth to quake, The trees did daunce, the mighty mountes dyd shake. 45. Haue here myne end, from threatning thunder clap, A burning bolt did pearce my hart with payne, Wherewith I cryed: “O _Cæsar_, my mishap Is comme, for whilst I thought thee to haue slayne, _Ioue’s_ vengeaunce iust hath torne my corps in twayne.” This was my end, although some writers say, That _Claudius_ blade did cause my last decay. 46. To slip at first, such fall hath little foyle, Greate ruth it is to lose a race forerunne, And at the end by slipping suttle soyle, Wagelesse too lose a race too wel begonne, The turrets top let wise men wisely shunne, Who falles from top, he mercilesse is slayne; Who falles below, can quickly ryse agayne. 47. I tel this tale who knowledge bought too deare, I could not be content with meane estate; Let them therefore which shal this story heare, So loue the meane, extremitie so hate, That they may liue in blesse without debate. Who is content amidst the meane to dwel, With perfite blysse he only dooth excell. 48. With royal rule you kinges which runne your race, Take heede, beware, flee fancies fonde delight, Ambition blinde wyl moue you to imbrace, A thousande euils, disdayne with al your might Her luring lookes: she me a wretched wyght, Transformde, and made with _Circe’s_ sorcerie, A brutishe beast, and worse if worse may be. 49.