Metrum 4.

Whose calme soule in a settled state
Kicks under foot the frowns of Fate,
And in his fortunes bad or good
Keeps the same temper in his bloud,
Not him the flaming Clouds above,
Nor Ætna's fierie tempests move,
No fretting seas from shore to shore
Boyling with Indignation o're
Nor burning thunderbolt that can
A mountain shake, can stirre this man.
Dull Cowards then! why should we start
To see these tyrants act their part?
Nor hope, nor fear what may befall
And you disarm their malice all.
But who doth faintly fear, or wish
And sets no law to what is his,
Hath lost the buckler, and (poor Elfe!)
Makes up a Chain to bind himselfe.