Why, here’s a balmy riddle to confound
The gathered company of either land:
Who shall we blame, whose guilt abound,
For so much death and waste of fair Britain?

This man, unseemly and untimely born,
Schemed with those got in royal beds;
And neither sex nor blood nor age is shown
To ’scape the carnage where it led;

But whether was more fault of fate or men,
The pull of Mars and his vengeful demands,
Or mere mortal jealousy, spite, and sin,
’Tis naught to grief but futile mute commands.

So tragedy is raised by heedless acts,
Sown in base luxury, reaped with regrets.