Of heuenly poems, O Clyo, calde by name In the colege of Musis goddes hystoriall, Adres thé to me, whiche am both halt and lame 10 In elect vteraunce to make memoryall! To thé for souccour, to thé for helpe I call, Mine homely rudnes and dryghnes to expell With the freshe waters of Elyconys well. Of noble actes aunciently enrolde Of famous pryncis and lordes of astate, By thy report ar wont to be extold, Regestringe trewly euery formare date; Of thy bountie after the vsuall rate Kyndell in me suche plenty of thy nobles, 20 These sorowfulle dites that I may shew expres. In sesons past, who hath herde or sene Of formar writyng by any presidente That vilane hastarddis in their furious tene, Fulfylled with malice of froward entente, Confetered togeder of commonn[184] concente Falsly to slee[185] theyr moste singuler good lord? It may be regestrede of shamefull recorde. So noble a man, so valiaunt lord and knyght, Fulfilled with honor, as all the world[186] doth ken; 30 At his commaundement which had both day and nyght Knyghtes and squyers, at euery season when He calde vpon them, as meniall houshold men: Were not[187] these commons vncurteis karlis of kind To slo their owne lord? God was not in their mynd. And were not they to blame, I say, also, That were aboute him, his o[w]ne[188] seruants of trust, To suffre him slayn of his mortall fo? Fled away from hym, let hym ly in the dust; They bode not till the reckenyng were discust: 40 What shuld I flatter? what shuld I glose or paint? Fy, fy for shame, their hartes were to faint. In England and Fraunce which gretly was redouted, Of whom both Flaunders and Scotland stode in drede, To whom great estates obeyed and lowted, A mayny of rude villayns made hym for to blede; Unkyndly they slew him, that holp[189] them oft at nede: He was their bulwark, their paues, and their wall, Yet shamfully they slew hym; that shame mot them befal! I say, ye comoners, why wer ye so stark mad? 50 What frantyk frensy fyll in your brayne? Where was your wit and reson ye should haue had? What wilful foly made yow to ryse agayne Your naturall lord? alas, I can not fayne: Ye armyd you with will, and left your wit behynd; Well may you[190] be called comones most vnkynd. He was your chefteyne, your shelde, your chef defence, Redy to assyst you in euery time of nede; Your worshyp depended of his excellence: Alas, ye mad men, to far ye did excede; 60 Your hap was vnhappy, to ill was your spede: What moued you againe him to war or to fyght? What alyde you to sle[191] your lord again all ryght?