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47. Prudens. The historie of Damacles, & Dionise.

Whoso is set in princly trone, and craueth rule to beare,
Is still beset on euery side, with perill and with feare.
High trees by stormie winds are shakt, & rent vp frō the groūd
And flashy flaks of lightnings flames on turrets do reboūd
When little shrubs in safetie lurke, in couert all alowe,
And freshly florish in their kynde, what ever winde doe blowe.
The cruell king of Scisily: who fearing Barbars hands,
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Was wont to singe his beard hym self, with cole and fire brands,
Hath taught us this, the proofe whereof, full plainly we may see,
Was never thyng more liuely touched, to shewe it so to bee.
This kyng did seme to Damacles, to be the happiest wight,
Because he thought none like to hym, in power or in might.
Who did alone so farre excell the rest in his degree,
As doeth the Sunne in brightnes cleare, the darkest starre we see.
Wilt thou (then said this cruell kyng) proue this my present state?
Possesse thou shalt this seate of myne, and so be fortunate.
Full gladly then this Damacles this proferd honour tooke,
And shootyng at a princely life, his quiet rest forsooke.
In honours seate then was he plast, accordyng to his wyll,
Forthwith a banquet was preparde, that he might feast his fill.
Nothyng did want wherein twas thought, that he would take delite,
To feede his eye, to fill his mouthe, or please the appetite.
Such store of plate, I think in Grece, there scarsly was so much,
His servitours did Angels seme, their passyng shape was such.
No daintie dishe but there it was, and thereof was suche store,
That throughout Grece so princly chere, was neuer seen before.
Thus while in pōpe and pleasures seate, this Damacles was plast,
And did beginne with gladsome harte, eche daintie dishe to taste,
At length by chaunce cast up his eyes, and gan the house to vewe,
And sawe a sight that hym enforst, his princly state to rewe.
A sworde forsoth with dounward point, that had no stronger thred
Then one horse heere that peised it, direct upon his head.
Wherewith he was so sore amasde, and shooke in euery parte,
As though the sworde that hong aboue, had stroke hym to the hart.
Then all their pleasures toke their leaue, & sorowe came in place,
His heauie harte the teares declared, that trickled doune his face.
And then forthwith with sobbing voice, besought ye king of grace,
That he would licens hym with speede, to depart out of that place.
And saied that he full long enough, had tried now with feare,
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What tis to be a happie man, and princly rule to beare.
This deede of thyne oh Dionise, deserues immortal fame,
This deede shall alwaies liue with praise, though thou didst liue wt shame.
Whereby bothe kynges be put in minde, their dangers to be great
And subiects be forbid to clime, high stepps of honours seate.
Finis.
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