him shame? To all the host of heaven I complain me, Thou wrong’st his honour, wound’st his princely name. Thou art not what thou seem’st; and if the same, Thou seem’st not what thou art, a god, a king; For kings like gods should govern everything. 

 “How will thy shame be seeded in thine age, When thus thy vices bud before thy spring? If in thy hope thou dar’st do such outrage, What dar’st thou not when once thou art a king? O, be remembered, no outrageous thing From vassal actors can be wiped away; Then kings’ misdeeds cannot be hid in clay. 

 “This deed will make thee only loved for fear, But happy monarchs still are feared for love. With foul offenders thou perforce must bear, When they in thee the like offences prove. If but for fear of this, thy will remove, For princes are the glass, the school, the book, Where subjects’ eyes do learn, do read, do look. 

 “And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall learn? Must he in thee read lectures of such shame? Wilt thou be glass, wherein it shall discern Authority for sin, warrant for blame, To privilege dishonour in thy name? Thou back’st reproach against long-living laud, And mak’st fair reputation but a bawd. 

 “Hast thou command? By him that gave it thee, From a pure heart command thy rebel will. Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity, For it was lent thee all that brood to kill. Thy princely office how canst thou fulfill, When, patterned by thy fault, foul Sin may say He learned to sin, and thou didst teach the way? 

 “Think but how vile a spectacle it were To view thy present trespass in another. Men’s faults do seldom to themselves appear; Their own transgressions partially they smother. This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother. O how are they wrapped in with infamies That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes! 

 “To thee, to thee, my heaved-up hands appeal, Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier. I sue for exiled majesty’s repeal; Let him return, and flatt’ring thoughts retire. His true respect will prison false desire, And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne, That thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine.” 

 “Have done,” quoth he. “My uncontrolled tide Turns not, but swells the higher by this let. Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide, And with the wind in greater fury fret. The petty streams that pay a daily debt To their salt sovereign, with their fresh falls’ haste Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.” 

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