This rebell stoute, in traytrous sorte, that rose agaynst his Prince,
And sought by bloudy broyles of warre her scepter to convince,
So long as fortune did support his devilish enterprice,
So long ambition blinded quight his karnish knavish eyes,
And moude him proudly to usurpe the title not his owne,
As one that might enjoy the fruite which other men had sowne.
But when his mistres did revoke her former goode successe,
And left the roge in greevous bandes of sore and deepe distresse,
He then bewaylde his former lyfe, and pagentes playde in vayne,
Repentyng that her highnes lawes he held in such disdayne;
But all to late his folly sought his greeffor to recure,
When that agaynst his will he must her heavy stroke endure;
For though at first he founde successe, the sweet, once past, came sowre,
And overthrew his glorious state in minute of an houre,
So as his raigne endurde not long, but tombled in the myre,
Because he sinde in that he moude our noble Queene to ire.
O lamentable thyng to see ambition clyme so high,
When superstitious pride shall fall in twynckling of an eye!
For such is every rebells state, and evermore hath bene,
And let them never better speede that ryse agaynst our Queene.