On Her Enemies

THE DOUBT of future foes, exiles my present joy,

And wit me warnes to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy.

For falshood now doth flow, and subject faith doth ebbe,

Which would not be, if reason rul’d or wisdome wev’d the webbe.

But clowdes of tois untried, do cloake aspiring mindes,

Which turne to raigne of late repent, by course of changed windes.

The toppe of hope supposed, the roote of ruth will be,

And frutelesse all their graffed guiles, as shortly ye shall see.

Then dazeld eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds,

Shal be unseeld by worthy wights, whose forsight falshood finds,

The daughter of debate, that eke discord doth sowe

Shall reap no gaine where former rule hath taught still peace to growe.

No forreine banisht wight shall ancre in this port,

Our realme it brookes no strangers force, let them elsewhere resort.

Our rusty sword with rest, shall first his edge employ,

To polle their toppes that seeke such change and gape for joye.