Hir faire discouer'd brest with sobbing swolne
Selfe cruell she still martireth with blowes,
Alas! It's our ill happ, for if hir teares
She would conuert into hir louing charmes,
To make a conquest of the conqueror,
(As well shee might, would she hir force imploie)
She should vs saftie from these ills procure,
Hir crowne to hir, and to hir race assure.
_Vnhappy he, in whome selfe-succour lies,_
_Yet self-forsaken wanting succour dies._

Chorus.

O swete fertile land, wherin
_Phaebus_ did with breath inspire
Man who men did first begin,
Formed first of _Nilus_ mire.
Whence of _Artes_ the eldest kindes,
Earthes most heauenly ornament,
Were as from their fountaine sent,
To enlight our mistie mindes.
Whose grosse sprite from endles time,
As in darkned prison pente,
Neuer did to knowledg clime.
Wher the _Nile_, our father good,
Father-like doth neuer misse
Yearely vs to bring such food,
As to life required is:
Visiting each yeare this plaine,
And with fatt slime cou'ring it,
Which his seauen mouthes do spitt,
As the season comes againe.
Making therby greatest growe
Busie reapers ioyfull paine,
When his flouds do highest flowe.
Wandring Prince of riuers thou,
Honor of the _AEthiops_ lande,
Of a Lord and master now
Thou a slaue in awe must stand.
Now of _Tiber_ which is spred
Lesse in force, and lesse in fame
Reuerence thou must the name,
Whome all other riuers dread,
For his children swolne in pride,
Who by conquest seeke to treade
Round this earth on euery side.
Now thou must begin to sende
Tribute of thy watrie store,
As Sea pathes thy stepps shall bende,
Yearely presents more and more.
Thy fatt skumme, our frutefull corne,
Pill'd from hence with theeuish hands
All vncloth'd shall leaue our lands
Into foraine Countrie borne.
Which puft vp with such a pray
Shall therby the praise adorne
Of that scepter _Rome_ doth sway.
Nought thee helps thy hornes to hide
Farre from hence in vnknowne grounds,
That thy waters wander wide,
Yearely breaking bankes, and bounds.
And that thy Skie-coullor'd brookes
Through a hundred peoples passe,
Drawing plots for trees and grasse
With a thousand turn's and crookes.
Whome all weary of their way
Thy throats which in widenesse passe
Powre