Somewhat the sad remembrance did me stirre Oth' fraile and weake condition of our kind, Somewhat his greatnesse; then whom yesterday The world but Caesar could shew nothing higher.

a Conjuring booke ne're open'd Without the readers danger: 'tis indeed A scare-crow set i'th world to fright weake fooles.

Why? thinks my joy, my princely Alderbure, Hyanthes faith stands on so weake a ground, That it will fall or bend with everie winde?

So she with flattring smyles weake harts doth guyde Unto her love, and tempte to theyr decay; Whome, being caught, she kills with cruell pryde, And feeds at pleasure on the wretched pray.

I fyrst desyre To be beleived my love & utmost servyce Are vowed unto your greatnes, to which beleife The hazard of my life throughe all the daungers That ever fryghted weake mortallytie, Shalbe an instygation.

They can forbeare the Gyants that throw stones, And smile upon their follies; but when they frowne Their angers fall downe perpendicular And strike their weake Opposer into nothing: The Thunder tells us so.

Let them extoll weake pittie that do neede it, Let meane men cry to have Law and Iustice done And tell their griefes to Heaven that heares them not: Kings must upon the Peoples headlesse courses Walk to securitie and ease of minde.

So weake my powres, so sore my wounds, appear, That wonder is how I should live a iot, Seeing my hart through-launced every where With thousand arrowes which your eies have shot.

Alas, weake Prince, how hast thou punisht me To banish me from thee?

Gentle Sir, Lay not a leaden loade of foule reproach Upon so weake a prop; what's done is past recal.

Weake is th'assurance that weake flesh reposeth In her own powre, and scorneth others ayde; That soonest fals, when as she most supposeth Her selfe assur'd, and is of nought affrayd, All flesh is frayle, and all her strength unstayd, Like a vaine bubble blowen up with ayre: Devouring tyme and changeful chance have prayd* Her glorious pride, that none may it repayre.

The glorious pourtraict of that angels face, Made to amaze weake mens confused skil, And this worlds worthlesse glory to embase, What pen, what pencil!, can expresse her fill?

doubt, and fly before Myne owne weake thoughts?Art thou there, too?

Our chiefest care is for that tender boye, Which we should leave discomfortlesse behinde, But that we do assure us of your love And care to guide his weake unhable youth In pathes of knowledge, grace, and godlinesse.