1 CHORUS

The diverse haps which always work our care, Our joys so far, our woes so near at hand, Have long ere this, and daily do declare The fickle foot on which our state doth stand. "Who plants his pleasures here to gather root, "And Hope's his happy life will still endure, "Let him behold how death with stealing foot "Steps in, when he shall think his joys most sur . "No ransom serveth to redeem our days. If prowess could preserve, or worthy deeds, He had yet lived whose twelve labours displays His enddlesse fame, and yet his honour spreads. And that gre to king that with so small a power Alexan der. Bereft the might j Persian his crown: Doth witness well our life is but a flower, Though it be decked with honour and renown. What damned fury hath possessed our Queen Why fit we still beholding her distress? Madame forbear, suppress this headstrong rage. Yet let not us maidens condemn our kind, Because our virtues are not all so rare: For we may freshly yet record in mind, There lives a virgin, one without compare: Who of all graces hath her heavenly share. In whose renown, and for whose happy days, Let us record this Paean of her praise. Who marks our former times and present years, What we are now, and looks what we have been, He cannot but lament with bitter tears, The great decay and change of all women. For as the world wore on and waxed old, So virtue quailed, and vice began to grow. So that, that age, that whilom was of gold, Is worse than brass, more vile than iron now, The times were such, that if we ought believe Of elder days) women examples were, Of rare virtues: Lucre disdained to live Longer then chased: and boldly without fear Took sharp revenge on her enforced heart, With her own hands: for that it not withstood The wanton will, but yielded to the force Of proud Tarquin, who bought his fame with blood. Who does not know the fruits of Paris love, Nor understand the end of Helens oy, He may behold the fatal overthrow OfPriams house, and of the town of Troy. His death at last, and her eternal shame, For whom so many a noble knight was slain. So many a Duke, so many a Prince of fame Bereft his life, and left there in the plain. Medea's armed hand, Eliza's sword, Wretched Leander drenched in the flood. Phillis so long that waited for her Lord All these too dearly bought their loves with blood. Right mighty is thy power, Oh cruel Love, High Jove himself cannot resist thy bow, Thou sentest him down, even from ̄ the heavens above, In sundry shapes here to the earth below, Then how shall mortal men escape thy dart? The fervent flame, and burning of thy fire? Since that thy might is such, and since thou art, Both of the seas and land the Lord and sire. What mones be these? Renuchio is this Salerne I see? Does here king Tancred hold the awful cronw? Is this the place where civil people be? Or do the savage Scythians here abound? But headstrong mischiefs princes should avoid His care & grief.