_4_ Then thou whom partiall heavens conspir’d in one to frame The proofe of beauties worke, the inheritance of fame, The mansion state of blisse, and just excuse of lovers: See now those feathers pluckt wherewith thou flewest most hie, See what cloudes of reproach shall darke thy honours skie; Whom fault once casteth downe, hardly high state recovers. _5_ And ô my Muse, though oft you luld her in your lap, And then a heavenly Childe gave her Ambrosian pap, And to that braine of hers your highest gifts infused: Since she disdaining me, doth you in me disdaine, Suffer not her to laugh, and both we suffer paine: Princes in subjects wrongd must deeme themselves abused. _6_ Your client poore, my selfe, shall _Stella_ handle so, Revenge, revenge, my Muse defiance trumpet blowe, Threat, threat, what may be done; yet do no more but threaten: Ah, my sute granted is, I feele my breast doth swell; Now Childe, a lesson new you shall begin to spell, Sweet babes must babies have, but shrewd girles must be beaten. _7_ Thinke now no more to heare of warme fine shining snow, Nor blushing Lillyes, nor pearles Rubie hidden row, Nor of that golden sea, whose waves in curles are broken: But of thy soule fraught with such ungratefulnesse, As where thou soone mightst help, most there thou dost oppresse: Ungratefull who is cald, the worst of ills is spoken. _8_ Yet worse than worse, I say thou art a Thiefe. A thiefe? Now God forbid: a thiefe, and of worst thieves a thiefe; Thieves steale for neede, & steale for goods, which paine recovers: But _thou_, rich in all joyes, dost rob my goods from mee, Which cannot be restorde by time nor industrie: Of foes the spoyle is evill, farre more of constant lovers. _9_ Yet gentle English thieves doo rob, and will not slay; Thou English murdring thiefe, wilt have hearts for thy pray. The name of murdrer now on thy faire forhead sitteth, And even while I do speake my death wounds bleeding bee, Which I protest proceed from onely cruell thee. Who may and will not save, murther in trueth committeth. _10_ But murthers private fault seemes but a toy to thee. I lay then to thy charge unjustice Tirannie, If rule by force without all claime, a Tyrant sheweth; For thou art my hearts Lord, who am not borne thy slave, And which is worse makes me most guiltles torments have. A rightfull Prince by unrightfull deeds a Tyrant groweth. _11_ Loe you grow proud with this, for Tyrants makes folks bow: Of foule rebellion then I do appeach thee now, Rebels by Natures lawes rebell by way of reason: Thou sweetest subject wert borne in the Realme of Love, And yet against thy Prince, thy force dost daily prove. No vertue merits praise, once toucht with blot of Treason.