University of Virginia Library

Epilogus.

Lo here the fruite of high aspiring minde,
Who weeues to mount aboue the mouing skies:
Lo here the trappe that titles proud do finde,
See, ruine growes when most we reache to ryse:
Sweete is the name, and stately is the raigne
Of kingly rule, and sway of royall seate,
But bitter is the taste of Princes gayne,
When climbing heads do hunte for to be great.
Who would forecast the banke of restlesse toyle,
Ambitious wightes do fraight their brestes withall,
The growing cares, the feares of dreadfull foyle,
The euill successe that on suche flightes do fall,
He would not stayne his practise to atchiue
The largest limites of the mightiest states.
But oh, what fansies sweete do still relieue
The hungry humor of these swelling hates?
What poyson sweete inflameth highe desire?
How soone the hawty heart is puft with pride?
How soone is thirst of scepter set on fire?
How soone in rising mindes doth mischiefe slyde?
What bloudy sturres doth glut of honour breede?
Thambitious sonne doth ofte surpresse his syre:
Where natures power vnfayned loue should spread,
There malice raynes and reacheth to be higher.
O blinde vnbridled searche of Soueraintie,
O tickle trayne of euill attayned state,
O fonde desire of princely dignitie,
Who climbs too soone, he ofte repents too late.
The golden meane the happie dothe suffise,
They leaue the posting day in rare delight,
They fill (not feede) their vncontented eyes,
They reape suche rest as dothe begile the might,
They not enuie the pompe of haughtie reigne,
Ne dreade the dinte of proude vsurping swoorde,
But plaste alowe, more sugred ioyes attaine,
Than swaye of loftie Scepter can afoorde.
Cease to aspire then, cease to soare so high,
And shunne the plague that pierceth noble breastes:
To glittring courtes what fondnesse is to flee,
When better state in baser Towers rests?