SIRE, your dogge Lemon, once your bed-fellowe, Nowe hath the bare ground for his nightly stead; That same true dogge that, by his instinct led, Leal friends from traitors did soe rightly knowe. His voice it was that frighted robbers soe, His teeth gript murderers; discomforted, Why hath he harde blowes and a beggar's bed, The wonted wage that royal kynges bestowe? His pryde, his beauty, and his winsome youth Made you to love him; but he had noe ruth For your ill-wishers whose bold steps he barr'd. Ye courtiers proude beholdynge haughtilie This outcast dogge that in the streets doth die, On your devotion waits a like rewarde. |