Wherby we growe so obstinate, And so ambitious ill: That vs at length our brauery bids In all things vse our will. Ambition thinkes that lawefull is, Which likes hir fancie best: And demes she ought to haue hir forth, And swinge before the rest. She loues no mates, controlment shee And warning doth despise: She demes her selfe in all hir deede And actions, wonders wise. She hath desire of this and that, To get by crouche or clawe: By right or wrong she forceth not, She vseth will for lawe. No kinde, or countrey she regardes, No mother, father shee: Nor wyfe, or husbande, kithe or kin: But enuies eche degree. For if thy hart Ambition haue, Thy greedy mynde to still: Thou wilt not sticke thy dearest frende, Or nerest kin to kill. But as the prouerbe sayes that Pryde Must needes at length haue fall: Though we suppose of strength and powre We haue the deuill and all. Euen so I say: Ambition makes Vs often clime so hie: At length we fall, we come to nought, And drownde in darkenes lye. This may I Forrex well auouche, By proufe to true I finde: Wherefore I praye thee with the rest, Do put my faultes in mynde. My father olde, hight Gorboduge, Raignde three score yeares and three: And at his death gaue all his lande Twene Porrex proude and mee. Fiue yeares we helde it so in peace, In reste we ruled well: But at the last by pryde and wrath We foule at discorde fell. We eache encrochte on others partes, For rule we liu’de at strife: And eache did seeke occasion aye To reaue the others life. I made this counte I elder was, By birth the realme was myne: By warre, or wrong, or bloud I ment To haue it all in fine. And he although he yonger were, Esteemde his state so sure As mine: and thought it his, if hee My death might once procure. My mother eke that lou’de me more Although he yonger was: By diuers meanes did helpe me still To bring my feates to passe. Wherby I thought my selfe so sure To haue my purpose sped, As I requirde: if once I might Get of his crafty head. See here what faith what frendship is, What loue what fauour wee Do shewe to any wight aliue, If once aloft we bee. To fathers we are faithlesse ofte: To brothers, butchers vile: Of sisters small accounte we make, And wedded wyues exile. If any kithe, or kin, we haue, By whom we vantage may: We care not by what cruell meanes Their liues we take away. But for to get the seate alone, And for to wynne the crowne: We care not whom, nor when, nor how: So we may get them downe.