What subiects eke more happy were then these? Had such a King of such a noble heart, And such a land enioyde and liu’d at ease, Whereof ech man almost might chose his part? No feare of foes, vnknowne was treason’s art, No fayning friends, no fawning _Gnatoes_ skill, No _Thrasoes_ brags, but bearing ech good will. 55. But as ech sommer once receaues an ende, And as no state can stable stande for aye, As course of time doth cause thinges bowe and bend, As euery pleasure hath hir ending daye, As will can neuer passe the power of maye: Euen so my father, happy dayes that spent, Perceau’d he must by sicknesse last relent. 56. As doth the shipman well foresee the storme, And knowes what daunger lyes in Syrtes of sand: Eke as the husbandman prouides beforne, When hee perceaues the winter cold at hand: Euen so the wise, that course of things haue scan’d, Can well the end of sicknes great presage, When it is ioyn’d with yeares of stooping age. 57. His sonnes and Counsaile all assembled were: For why hee sent for vs and them with speede. Wee came in hast, this newes vs caused feare.[202] Sith so hee sent, wee thought him sicke indeede.[203] And when wee all approacht to him with heede,[204] Too soone alas, his grace right sicke we found, And him saluted as our duties bound. 58. And casting of his woefull[205] eyes aside, Not able well to mooue his painefull head, As silent wee with teares his minde abide, Hee wil’d himselfe bee reared in his bed. Which done, with sight of vs his eyes hee fed, Eke pawsing so a while for breath hee stayd, At length to them and vs thus wise hee sayd. 59. “No maruaile sure, though you herewith bee sad, (You noble Britaines) for your _Brutus’_ sake. Sith whilom mee your captaine stout you had, That now my leaue and last farwell must take, Thus nature willes mee once an ende to make, And leaue you here behinde, which after mee Shall die, as mee[206] departe before you see. 60. “You wot wherefore I with the Græcians fought, With dinte of sworde I made their force to fly: _Antenor’s_ friends on Tuscane shores I sought, And did them[207] not my promist land deny, By Martiall powre I made the Frenchmen fly, Where you to saue I lost my faithfull frende, For you, at Tours, my _Turnus_ tooke his ende. 61.