And thou _Scipio_, a miroir mayst thou bee To all nobles, that they learne not to late, How they once trust th’vnstable[1623] commontie: Thou that recuredst[1624] the torne dismembred state, Euen when the conquerour was at the gate, Art now exilde, as though thou not deserued To rest in her, whom thou hadst so preserued. 65. Ingratfull _Rome_, hast shewde thy crueltie On him, by whom thou lyuest yet in fame, But not thy deede, nor his desert shall die, But his owne words shall witnes ay the same: For, loe, his graue doth thee most iustly blame, And with disdayne in marble sayes to thee: Vnkind countrey, my bones shalt thou not see. 66. What more vnworthy then this his exile? More iust then this the wofull playnt hee wrote? Or who could shew a playner proofe the while, Of most false fayth, then they that thus forgot His great deserts? that so deserued not: His cindres yet, loe, doth hee them deny That him denyde amongst them for to dye. 67. _Milciades_, O happy hadst thou bee,[1625] And well rewarded of thy countrey men, If in the fielde when thou hadst forst to flye, By thy prowes, three hundred thousand men, Content they had beene to exile thee then: And not to cast thee in depth of prison, so Laden with gyues, to end thy life in woe. 68. Alas, how hard and steely hearts had they, That, not contented there to haue thee dye, With fettred gyues in prison where thou lay, Increast so farre in hatefull crueltye, That buriall to thy corps, they eke denye: Ne wil they graunt the same till thy sonne haue Put on thy gyues, to purchase thee a graue. 69. Loe, _Hanniball_, as long as fixed fate, And brittle fortune had ordayned so, Who, euermore, aduaunst his country state Then thou, that liu’dst[1626] for her and for no moe? But when the stormy waues began to growe, Without respect of thy deserts erewhile, Art by thy[1627] countrey throwne into exile. 70. Unfrendly fortune, shall I thee now blame? Or shall I fault the fates that so ordayne? Or art thou Ioue the causer of the same? Or cruelty her selfe, doth shee constrayne? Or on whom els, alas, shall I complayne? O trustlesse world, I can accusen none, But fickle fayth of commontie alone. 71. The Polipus nor the Chameleon straunge, That tourne themselues to euery hewe they see, Are not so full of vayne and fickle chaunge, As is this false vnstedfast commontye: Loe, I, alas, with myne aduersitye Haue tryde it true, for they are fled and gone, And of an hoast there is not left mee one.