SONNET TO THE KYNGE by THEODORE AGRIPPA D' AUBIGNE

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.

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