The doubt of future foes
exiles my present joy,
And wit me warns to shun such snares as
threaten mine annoy;
For falsehood now doth flow, and subjects'
faith doth ebb,
Which should not be if reason ruled or
wisdom weaved the web.
But clouds of joys untried do cloak
aspiring minds,
Which turn to rain of late repent by
changed course of winds.
The top of hope supposed the root upreared
shall be,
And fruitless all their grafted guile, as
shortly ye shall see.
The dazzled eyes with pride, which great
ambition blinds,
Shall be unsealed by worthy wights whose foresight
falsehood finds.
The daughter of debate that discord aye doth sow
Shall reap no gain where former rule still peace hath
taught to know.
No foreign banished wight shall anchor in this port;
Our realm brooks not seditious sects, let them
elsewhere resort.
My rusty sword through rest shall first his edge
employ
To poll their tops that seek such change or gape for
future joy.
