No Briefes nor Semi-Briefes are in my Songs, Because (alas) my griefe is seldome shoot; My Prick-Song's alwayes full of Largues and Longs, (Because I neuer can obtaine the Port Of my desires: Hope is a happie Fort.) Prick-song (indeed) because it pricks my hart; And Song, because sometimes I ease my smart.
The mightie Monarch of a royall Realme, Swaying his Scepter with a Princely pompe; Of his desires cannot so steare the Healme, But sometime falls into a deadly dumpe, When as he heares the shrilly-sounding Trumpe Of Forren Enemies, or home-bred Foes; His minde of griefe, his hart is full of woes.
Or when bad subiects gainst their Soueraigne (Like hollow harts) vnnaturally rebell, How carefull is he to suppresse againe Their desperate forces, and their powers to quell With loyall harts, till all (againe) be well: When (being subdu'd) his care is rather more To keepe them vnder, than it was before.
Thus is he neuer full of sweete Content, But either this or that his ioy debars: Now Noble-men gainst Noble-men are bent, Now Gentlemen and others fall at iarrs: Thus is his Countrey full of ciuill warrs; He still in danger sits, still fearing Death: For Traitors seeke to stop their Princes breath.
The whylst the other hath no enemie, Without it be the Wolfe and cruell Fates (Which no man spare): when as his disagree He with his sheep-hooke knaps them on the pates, Schooling his tender Lambs from wanton gates: Beasts are more kinde then Men, Sheepe seeke not blood But countrey caytiues kill their Countreyes good.
The Courtier he fawn's for his Princes fauour, In hope to get a Princely ritch Reward; His tongue is tipt with honey for to glauer; Pride deales the Deck whilst Chance doth choose the Card, Then comes another and his Game hath mard; Sitting betwixt him, and the morning Sun: Thus Night is come before the Day is done.
Some Courtiers carefull of their Princes health, Attends his Person with all dilligence Whose hand's their hart; whose welfare is their wealth, Whose safe Protection is their sure Defence, For pure affection, not for hope of pence: Such is the faithfull hart, such is the minde, Of him that is to Vertue still inclinde.
The skilfull Scholler, and braue man at Armes, First plies his Booke, last fights for Countries Peace; Th'one feares Obliuion, th'other fresh Alarmes; His paines nere ende, his trauailes neuer cease; His with the Day, his with the Night increase: He studies how to get eternall Fame; The Souldier fights to win a glorious Name.