Comparisoun yit mighte never be makèd
Bitwen him and noon other conquerour;
For al this world for drede of him hath quakèd.
He was of knyghthod and of fredom flour;
Fortune him made the heir of hir honoúr;
Save wyn and wymmen, no thing might aswage
His high entent in armes and laboúr,
So was he ful of leonyne corage.

What pris were it to him, though I you tolde
Of Dárius, and an hundred thousand mo
Of kynges, princes, dukes, and erles bolde,
Which he conquérèd and brought unto wo?
I say, as fer as men may ryde or go,
The world was his, what shold I more devyse?
For thouhe I write or tolde you evermo
Of his knighthood, it mighte nought suffise.

Twelf yer he regnèd, as saith Machabee;
Philippes son of Macedon he was,
That first was king of Grece that contree.
O worthy gentil Alisaundre, alas!
That ever shulde falle such a case!
Empoysoned of thin oune folk thou were;
Thy Six fortune is torned into an Ace
And right for thee she never wepte a teere

Who shal me give teeres to compleigne
This deth of gentiless and of fraunchise,
Who al the worlde had in his demeine;
And yit him thought it mighte nought suffice,
So ful was his coráge of high emprise.
Allas! who shal me helpe to endite
Fals infortúne, and poysoun to despise,
The whiche two cause of this wo I write.

Julius Cesar

By wisedom, manhod, and by gret laboúr,
Fro humblehede to royal majestee
Up roos he, Julius the conquerour,
That won al the occident by land and see,
By strengthe of hond or else by tretee,
And unto Rome made them tributarie
And since of Rome the emperour was he,
Til that fortúne wax his adversarie.

O mighty Cesar, that in Thessalie
Against Pompeius, fader thin in lawe,
That of the orient had the chivalrie,
As fer as that the day bigynneth to dawe,
Thrugh thi knighthod thou hast him take and slawe,
Save fewe folk that with Pompeus fledde;
Thurgh which thou puttist al the east in awe;
Thanke fortúne that so wel thee spedde.

But now a litel while I wil bewails
This Pompeus, the noble governour
Of Rome, which that fled from this bataile;
Alas! oon of his men, a fals traitoúr,
His heed off smoot, to wynnen him favoúr
Of Julius, and him the hed he broughte.
Alas! Pompey, of the orient conquerour,
That fortune unto such an end thee broughte.

To Rome agayn repaireth Julius,
With his triumphe laurial ful hye.
But on a tyme Brutus and Cassius,
That ever hadde to his estat envýe,
Ful privily hath made conspiracie
Against this Julius in subtil wise;
And cast the place in which he shulde dye
With daggers bright, as I shal you devyse.

This Julius to the capitoile wente,
Upon a day, as he was wont to goon;
And in the capitoil anon him hente
This false Brutus, and his other foon,
And stikèd him with bodekyns anon
With many a wounde, and thus thay let him lye.
But never groned he at no strook but oon,
Or ellse at tuo, but-if the storie lye.

So manly was this Julius of herte,
And so wel loved estatly honestee,
That though his deedly woundes sore smerte,
His mantil over his hipes castes he,
For no man shulde seen his bare body.
And as he lay adeyinge in a traunce,
And wiste wel that verrayly deed was he
Of honestee yet had he rémembraúnce.

Lucan, to thee this story I recomende,
And to Swetoun and to Valirius also,
That al the story writen word and ende,
How to these grete conqueroúres tuo
Fortune was firste frend and after of.
No man may trust upon hir favour longe,
But watch and wait for hir for evermo,
Witnesse on alle thise conqueroures stronge.

Cresus

This riche Cresus, whilom king of Lyde,
Of which Cresús Cirus him sore dredde,
Yet was he caught amyddes al his pride,
And to the fyr to brenne him men him ladde.
But such a rayn doun fro the heven shedde,
That