Let oken club now strike, and poast of might
With knots ful hard his brestee load all aboute.
Let even his weapons so great woes complayne
Not you pore bases mates of your fathers praise,
With cruell wound revenging kinges agayne:
Not you your lims in Argos barriars playes,
Are taught to turne with weapons strong to smite
And strong of hand yet even now daring loe
The weapons of the Scithian quiver light
With stedy hand to paise set out from bow.
And stags to perce that save them selves by flight
And backes not yet ful maend of cruel beast.
To Stigian havens goe ye of shade and night
Goe hurtles soules, whom mischiefe hath opprest
Even in fyrst porch of lyfe but lately had,
And fathers fury goe unhappy kind
O litle children, by the way ful sad
Of journey knowen.
Goe see the angry kynges.