What helpe in this, the pale thus broken downe, The dere must needs in daunger run astray: At mee therefore why should the worlde so frowne? My weakenes made my youth a prince’s pray: Though wisdome should the course of nature stay, Yet try my case, who list, and they shall proue The ripest wits are soonest thralles to loue. 26. What neede I more to clere my selfe so[1981] much? A king me wan, and bad mee at his call, His royall state, his princely grace was such, The hope of will, that women seeke for all, The ease and wealth, the gifts which were not small, Besieged mee so strongly round about, My powre was weake, I could not holde him out. 27. Duke _Hanniball_ in all his conquest great, Or _Cæsar_ yet, whose triumphes did exceede, Of all theyr spoyles which made them toyle and sweate, Were not so glad to haue so rich a meede, As was this prince when I to him agreede, And yeelded mee a prisoner, willingly, As one that knewe no way away to fly. 28. The nitingale, for all his mery voyce, Nor yet the larke, that still delights to sing, Did neuer make the hearers so reioyce, As I with words haue made this worthy king: I neuer iarde, in tune was euery string, I tempred so my tongue to please his eare, That what I sayde was currant euery where. 29.* Sweete are the songs that merry night crow[1982] singes, For many parts are in those charming notes: Sweete are the tunes and pipes that pleaseth kings: Sweete is the love wherein great lordings dotes: But sweetst of all is fancie where it flotes, For throwe rough seas it smoothly swimmes away, And in deepe flouds where skulles of fish doe play. 30.* And where love slides, it leaves no signe nor showe, Where it hath gon the way so shuts againe: It is a sport to heare the fine night crow Chaunt in the queere upon a pricke-song plaine: No musicke more may please a prince’s vaine Than descant strange, and voice of faurets breest, In quiet bower when birds be all at rest. 31.* No such consort as plaine two parts in one, Whose rare reports doth carry cunning clean, Where two long loves and lives in joy alone: They sing at will the treble or the meane, Where musicke wants the mirth not worth a beane: The king and I agreed in such concorde, I rul’d by love, though he did raigne a lord. 32.