The wofull waste of summer past had all my pleasure spill’d: When home I came, nipt with sharpe cold of Boreas bitter aire, After repast to my warme bed forthwith I made repaire, Where, for the nights were tedious growen, and I disturb’d in mind With thoughts of that daies obiect seene, not vnto sleepe inclin’d, I vp did sit, my backe behind the pillow soft did stay, And call’d for light, with booke in hand to passe the time away; Of which each line which I did reade, in nature did agree With that true vse of things which I the day before did see A Mirrour hight for Magistrates, for title it did beare, In which by painfull pens, the fals of princes written were: There, as in glasse, I did behold, what day before did show, That beautie, strength, wealth, world’s vaine pompe, and all to dust do go: There did I see triumphant death beneath his feet tread downe The state of kings, the purple robe, the scepter and the crowne: Without respect with deadly dart all princes he did strike, The vertuous and the vicious prince to him been both alike: Nought else they leaue vntoucht of death except a vertuous name, Which dies, if that the sacred nine eternize not the same: Why then (ye thrice three borne of Ioue) why then be ye despis’d? Is vertue dead? hath daintie ease in her soft armes surpris’d The manhood of the elder world? hath rust of time deuour’d Th’ _Heröe’s_ stocke that on your heads such golden blessings showr’d? This silent night, when all things lie in lap of sweet repose, Ye only wake, the powres of sleepe your eyes do neuer close, To shew the sempiternitie, to which their names ye raise On wings of your immortall verse that truly merit praise: But where’s the due of your desert, or where your learning’s meed? Not only now the baser sprite, whom dunghill dust doth breed, But they that boast themselues to be in honor’s bosome borne, Disdaine your wisdome, and do hold your sectaries in scorne: No maruell then, me thought, it was, that in this booke I read, So many a prince I found exempt, as if their names been dead, Who for desert amongst the best a place might iustly claime: But who can put on any spirit to memorize the name Of any dead, whose thanklesse race t’whom learning shapes the leg In humble wise, yet in contempt bids learned wits go beg? As thus in bed with booke in hand I sate contemplating, The humorous night was waxed olde, still silence husht each thing, The clocke chim’d twelue, to which as I with listning eares attend, As signes of fraile mortalitie all things I apprehend; The daylight past, as life I deeme, the night as death to come, The clocke that chim’d, death’s fatall knell, that call’d me to my doome, Still silence rest from worldly cares, my bed the graue I thinke,