Marke well the effect, purtreyed here in all:
The Prelate with his dignities renowne,
The King that rules, the Lawyer in the hall,
The Harlot and the countrey toyling Clowne:
Howe and which way together they agree,
And what their talke and conference might be.
Ech to their cause, for gard of their degree,
And yet death is the conquerour you see.
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THe bishop vaunts to pray for thother fower,
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As who wold say, he holds the palme & pri[z]e,
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And that in him and his most holy power,
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It doth depend, their causes to suffise
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I pray (saith he) that Christs continual grace
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May them conduct, & guide in every place.
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THe puissant King he claimeth to defend,
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The bishop and the other three like case,
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In all conflictes or broyles unto the end,
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Who but his power their enemies doth deface
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He musters men, and sends them forth afarre
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In their behalf, to maintaine deadly warre.
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THe smiling queane, the harlot cald by name,
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Stands stiffe upon the blase of beauty brave,
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To vanquish all, she makes her prized clame.
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And that she ought the golden spurs to have,
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For by her slights she can bewitch the best,
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The strong, the Lawyer, & the rest.
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THe Lawyer he, in title of his clame,
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Presumeth next, by law and justice true,
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Somwhat the more, to elevate his name:
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For law (saith he) all discord doth subdue:
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It endeth strife, it gives to ech his right,
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And wholy doth contention vanquish quight
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THe contry clowne full loth to lose his rigth,
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Puts in his foot, and pleads to be the chiefe.
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What can they do (saith he) by power or might,
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If that by me they have not their reliefe?
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For want of food they should all perish than,
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What say you now to me the countrey man.
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For want of me they should both live and lacke,
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For want of me they could not till the earth,
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And thats the cause I cary on my backe,
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This table here of plenty not of dearth.
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I feast them all, their hunger I appease,
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For by my toyle they feede even at their ease.
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DEath that aloofe in stealing wise doth stand
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Hearing the vaunts that they begin to make.
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Straight steppeth forth, with piercing dart in hand
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And boldly seemes the quarell up to take.
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Are they (saith he) so proud in their degree,
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Lo, here by me soone conquered shall they bee,
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And standing by to give their later foode,
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He entreth straight, the conquest to attaine,
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Thers none of them (saith he) the chiefest bloud
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That valiant death intendeth to refraine,
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Ile crop their crowne & garlands fresh and gay,
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And at the last Ile shrine them all in clay.
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I pray for you all. I vanquish you all.
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I help you all to your right. I feede you all.
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I defend you all. I will kill you all.
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The Authors Apostrophe to
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the Reader.
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Here may you see, what as the world might be,
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The rich, the poore, Earle, Cesar, Duke, & King,
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Death spareth not the chiefest high degree,
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He triumphes still, on every earthly thing,
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While then we live let us endevour still,
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That all our works agree with Gods good will.
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