But clowdes of joyes untried
Do cloake aspiring minds;
Which turn to raine of late repent,
By course of changed windes.
The toppe of hope supposed
The roote of ruthe will be;
And frutelesse all their grafted guiles,
As shortly all shall see.
Then dazeld eyes with pride,
Which great ambition blindes,
Shal be unseeld by worthy wights,
Whose foresight falshood finds.
The daughter of debate,[2]
That discord ay doth sowe,
Shal reape no game where former rule
Hath taught stil peace to growe.
No forreine bannisht wight
Shall ancre in this port;
Our realme it brookes no strangers force,
Let them elsewhere resort.
Our rusty sworde with rest
Shall first his edge employ,
To poll the toppes, that seeke such change,
Or gape for such like joy.
NOTES
- She was at this time near three-score.
- She evidently means here the Queen of Scots.
***I cannot help subjoining to the above sonnet another distich of Elizabeth's,
preserved by Puttenham (p. 197), "which," says he, "our soveraigne lady wrote in
defiance of fortune."
"Never think you, Fortune can beare the sway
Where Vertue's force can cause her to obay.
The slightest effusion of such a mind deserves attention.