And here, I hope, is none that envies it.
In framing an artist, art hath thus decreed,
To make some good, but others to exceed;
And you are her labour’d scholar. Come, queen o’ the feast,—
For, daughter, so you are,—here take your place:
Marshal the rest, as they deserve their grace.
Which tells me in that glory once he was;
Had princes sit, like stars, about his throne,
And he the sun, for them to reverence;
None that beheld him, but, like lesser lights,
Did vail their crowns to his supremacy:
Where now his son’s like a glow-worm in the night,
The which hath fire in darkness, none in light:
Whereby I see that Time’s the king of men,
He’s both their parent, and he is their grave,
And gives them what he will, not what they crave.
And will awake him from his melancholy.
Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles,
And waste the time, which looks for other revels.
Even in your armours, as you are address’d,
Will very well become a soldier’s dance.
I will not have excuse, with saying this
Loud music is too harsh for ladies’ heads,
Since they love men in arms as well as beds.
So, this was well ask’d,’twas so well perform’d.
Here is a lady that wants breathing too:
And I have heard, you knights of Tyre
Are excellent in making ladies trip;
And that their measures are as excellent.
Thanks, gentlemen, to all; all have done well.
But you the best. Pages and lights, to conduct
We have given order to be next our own.