_Bohan._ I see thou art thine ene. Thou bonny King, if Princes fall from high, My fall is past, vntill I fall to die. 670 Now marke my talke, and prosecute my gyg. 2. _Ober._ How shuld these crafts withdraw thee from the world? But looke my _Bohan_, pompe allureth. _Enter ~Cirus~ king, humbling themselues: himselfe crowned by ~Oliue Pat~, at last dying, layde in a marbell tombe with this inscription_ Who so thou bee that passest, For I know one shall passe, knowe I I am _Cirus_ of _Persia_, 680 And I prithee leaue me not thus like a clod of clay Wherewith my body is couered. _All exeunt._ _Enter the king in great pompe, who reads it, & issueth, crieth vermeum._ _Boha._ What meaneth this? _Ober._ _Cirus_ of _Persia_, Mightie in life, within a marbell graue, Was layde to rot, whom _Alexander_ once Beheld in tombde, and weeping did confesse 690 Nothing in life could scape from wrethednesse: Why then boast men? _Boh._ What recke I then of life, Who makes the graue my tomb, the earth my wife: But marke mee more. 3. _Boh._ I can no more, my patience will not warpe. To see these flatteries how they scorne and carpe. _Ober._ Turne but thy head. _Enter our kings carring Crowns, Ladies presenting odors 700 to Potentates in thrond, who suddainly is slaine by his seruaunts, and thrust out, and so they eate._ _Exeunt._ Sike is the werld, but whilke is he I sawe. _Ober._ _Sesostris_ who was conquerour of the werld, Slaine at the last, and stampt on by his slaues. _Boh._ How blest are peur men then that know their graue, Now marke the sequell of my Gig. _Boh._ An he weele meete ends: the mirk and sable night Doth leaue the pering morne to prie abroade, 710 Thou nill me stay, haile then thou pride of kings, I ken the world, and wot well worldly things, Marke thou my gyg, in mirkest termes that telles The loathe of sinnes, and where corruption dwells Haile me ne mere with showes of gudlie sights: My graue is mine, that rids me from dispights. Accept my gig guid King, and let me rest, The graue with guid men, is a gay built nest. _Ober._ The rising sunne doth call me hence away, Thankes for thy gyg, I may no longer stay: 720 But if my traine, did wake thee from thy rest, So shall they sing, thy lullabie to nest. _Actus Secundus. Schena Prima._ _II. i._ _Enter the Countesse of Arrain, with Ida her daughter in theyr porch, sitting at worke._ _A Song._ _Count._ Faire _Ida_, might you chuse the greatest good Midst all the world, in blessings that abound: Wherein my daughter shuld your liking be? _Ida._ Not in delights, or pompe, or maiestie. 730 _Count._ And why? _Ida._ Since these are meanes to draw the minde From perfect good, and make true iudgement blind.