The Princes greate, and Monarches of the earthe,
Whoe, while they liv'de, the worlde might not suffice:
Yet can they claime, by greatnesse of their birthe,
To beare from hence, when nature life denies,
Noe more then they, who for releife did pyne,
Which is but this, a shrouding sheete of twyne.
Thoughe fewe there bee, while they doe flourishe heere,
That doe regarde the place whereto the muste:
Yet, thoughe theire pride like Lucifers appeere,
They shalbee sure at lengthe to turne to duste:
The Prince, the Poore, the Prisoner, and the slave,
They all at lengthe, are summon'de to their grave.
But, hee that printes this deepelie in his minde,
Althoughe he set in mightie CAESARS chaire,
Within this life, shall contentation finde,
When carelesse men, ofte die in great dispaire:
Then, let them blusshe that woulde be Christians thought,
And faile hereof, Sith Turkes the same have taught.
As SALADINE, that was the Souldaine greate
Of Babilon, when deathe did him arreste,
His subjectes charg'd, when he shoulde leave his seate,
And life resigne, to tyme, and natures heste:
They should prepare, his shyrte uppon a speare,
And all about forthwith the same shoulde beare.
Throughe ASCHALON, the place where he deceaste,
With trumpet Sounde, and Heralte to declare,
Theise wordes alowde: The Kinge of all the Easte
Great SALADINE, behoulde is stripped bare:
Of kingdomes large, and lyes in house of claie,
And this is all, he bare with him awaie.