“O noble prince,” quoth he, “loe, I am come As guiltie to my selfe, and do require To suffer shamefull death by righteous doome From thine owne mouth, against whose royall sire And gainst thy selfe I did of late conspire: Pronounce then death, a doome more sweet to mee, Then aged dayes in loathed life can bee. 27. Ay me the dayes, on you I may exclaime, In which to foule defame my life I lent: Alas, the nights, that testifie my shame, Your secret treasons I too late repent: O wrongfull world, that made my thoughts consent: Nor dayes, nor nights, nor world in future time, But will for aye record my gracelesse crime. 28. In vaine mine eyes, that shame yee do lament, Which follows me where euer I doe wone, In vaine my sighs, in vaine yee now are sent From wofull hart to waile my trespasse done: For should I liue, foule shame how shall I shun? Then welcome death, ’tis death must end my woe, Vnto my graue my greefe with me will goe.” 29. This said, he wept and I began relent And take remorse on his calamitie, His hoarie head did moue me to lament His wretched state, whom I from miserie Restor’d againe to former dignitie: For I, whose thoughts nere double dealing knew, Did also thinke his thoughts vnfan’d and true. 30. He being restor’d againe to liue in grace, Did cloake beneath the vaile of loyaltie, Th’intent of treason and did maske the face Of foule deceit with fawning flatterie, Till time-borne truth did shew his treacherie, For many a field and many a dreadfull fight His treason shew’d, which time did bring to light. 31. The scourge of peacefull pride, the god of warre, The prodigue spender of sweet plentie’s store Did ride about our coast in iron carre, Whose thundring wheeles like Neptune’s dreaded rore, Were heard to rattle on our Albion shore, So long, vntill the pale-fac’d queene of night Had twelue times borrow’d of her brother’s light. 32. In six fierce battels fought in martiall field, Fortune my sword with conquest did renowne, Six times _Canute_ ore-match’d in fight did yeeld And fled away, by froward fate cast downe, Leauing to me the hope of England’s crowne: Whose hopes my sword had smothered in the dust, If I to traytor’s words had giuen no trust. 33.