What praise were it to him, though I you told Of Darius, and a hundred thousand mo’, Of kingës, princes, dukes, and earlës bold, Which he conquér’d, and brought them into woe? I say, as far as man may ride or go, The world was his, why should I more devise? For, though I wrote or told you evermo’, Of his knighthood it mightë not suffice.
Twelve years he reigned, as saith Maccabee; Philippe’s son of Macedon he was, That first was king in Greecë the countrý. O worthy gentle Alexander, alas That ever should thee fallë such a case! Empoison’d of thine owen folk thou were; Thy six Fortúne hath turn’d into an ace, And yet for thee she weptë never a tear.
Who shall me givë tearës to complain The death of gentiléss, and of franchise, That all this worldë had in his demaine, And yet he thought it mightë not suffice, So full was his coráge of high emprise? Alas! who shall me helpë to indite Falsë Fortúne, and poison to despise? The whichë two of all this woe I wite.
By wisdom, manhood, and by great laboúr, From humbleness to royal majesty Up rose he, Julius the Conqueroúr, That won all th’ Occident, by land and sea, By strength of hand or ellës by treatý, And unto Romë made them tributáry; And since of Rome the emperor was he, Till that Fortúnë wax’d his adversáry.
O mighty Caesar, that in Thessaly Against Pompeius , father thine in law, That of th’ Oriént had all the chivalry, As far as that the day begins to daw, That through thy knighthood hast them take and slaw, Save fewë folk that with Pompeius fled; Through which thou put all th’ Orient in awe; Thankë Fortúnë that so well thee sped.
But now a little while I will bewail This Pompeius, this noble governór Of Romë, which that fled at this battaile; I say, one of his men, a false traitór, His head off smote, to winnë him favór Of Julius, and him the head he brought; Alas! Pompey, of th’ Orient conquerór, That Fortune unto such a fine thee brought!