But ere my wicked sword I could vnsheath, Vpon the bed of fraile mortalitie Lies conquering _William_, in the armes of death, T’whom enuious fame in his extremitie, Brings tidings of his sonne’s impietie, Debatefull enuie, finding once the thing That breeds our shame, sets euill newes on wing. 26. Could enuie find a darker cloud of shame, Wherewith t’obscure the shine of my renowne? Could fate for future woes more fitly frame The houres of time, to cause the conqueror frowne, Then when in death, he should dispose the crowne? Enuie, fate, time and all things else agree, To crosse that man, t’whom fortune crosse wil bee. 27. The sickly king my sire, whose daies were done, Thinking my course did threaten sure decay To the rich trophie of his conquest wonne, What nature gaue to me, did giue away, To set the state vpon a surer stay: For leauing life, he left by his decree His crowne to _Rufus_, and his curse to mee. 28. Tell me ambition, whence hadst thou that might, To stirre vp nature in bold _Beauchamp’s_ brest Gainst God, ’gainst king, ’gainst nature’s selfe to fight, Enacting by my hand such deeds vnblest, From the first motion of my mind’s vnrest? From hope of rule, and empire’s blind desire, Thou hadst that power to make me first aspire. 29. Reason strooke blind euen from my youth’s first spring With fond-bewitching hope in state to clime, That hope made frustrate by the powerfull king, Did but prefigure out for future time, Th’vnfortunate effects of my foule crime, The losse of crowne, the losse of all my right, The losse of freedome and my bodie’s sight. 30. Scarce had the hand of vnimpeached death, Clos’d vp the eyes of England’s conquering king: But fame, whose listning eares feeles euery breath Of whispering rumour, set him selfe on wig, And ouer seas to vs did tidings bring, That our dread sire was to his graue gone downe, And vnto _Rufus_ had bequeath’d his crowne. 31. Heart-swolne with furie to reuenge such wrongs, And claime the priuiledge then almost lost, Which vnto birth by nature’s gift belongs, Lest _Rufus_ pride in my disgrace might boast, My quarrell strengthned with a mightie hoast, I did arriue on England’s southerne shore, Gainst whose white rocks the British billowes rore. 32.