_Enter two battles, strongly fighting, the one led by_ SEMIRAMIS, _the other by_ STABROBATES: _she flies, and her crown is taken, and she hurt._
_Boh._ What gars this din of mirk and baleful harm, Where every wean is all betaint with blood?
_Ober._ This shows thee, Bohan, what is worldly pomp: Semiramis, the proud Assyrian queen, When Ninus died, did levy in her wars Three millions of footmen to the fight, Five hundred thousand horse, of armèd cars A hundred thousand more; yet in her pride Was hurt and conquered by Stabrobates. Then what is pomp?
_Boh._ I see thou art thine ene, Thou bonny king, if princes fall from high: My fall is past, until I fall to die. Now mark my talk, and prosecute my jig.
_Ober._ How should these crafts withdraw thee from the world? But look, my Bohan, pomp allureth.
_Enter_ CYRUS, _Kings humbling themselves; himself crowned by Olive Pat_[259]: _at last dying, laid in a marble tomb with this inscription:_
"Whoso thou be that passest [by],-- For I know one shall pass,--know I Am Cyrus of Persia, and I pray Leave me not thus like a clod of clay Wherewith my body is coverèd." [_All exeunt._
_Enter the_ King _in great pomp, who reads it, and issueth, crying,_ "Ver meum."
_Ober._ Cyrus of Persia, Mighty in life, within a marble grave Was laid to rot; whom Alexander once Beheld entomb'd, and weeping did confess, Nothing in life could 'scape from wretchedness: Why, then, boast men?
_Boh._ What reck I, then, of life, Who make the grave my home, the earth my wife? But mark me more.
_Boh._ I can no more; my patience will not warp To see these flatterers how they scorn and carp.
_Enter four_ Kings _carrying crowns_, Ladies _presenting odours to_ Potentate _enthroned, who suddenly is slain by his_ Servants _and thrust out; and so they eat._ [_Exeunt._
_Boh._ Sike is the werld; but whilk is he I saw?
_Ober._ Sesostris, who was conqueror of the world, Slain at the last and stamp'd on by his slaves.
_Boh._ How blest are peur men, then, that know their graves! Now mark the sequel of my jig.
_Boh._ An he weel meet ends. The mirk and sable night Doth leave the peering morn to pry abroad; Thou nill me stay: hail, then, thou pride of kings! I ken the world, and wot well worldly things. Mark thou my jig, in mirkest terms that tells The loath of sins and where corruption dwells. Hail me ne mere with shows of guidly sights; My grave is mine,--that rids me from despites.