ur bloud hath bloudie made,
Lay downe? these armes downe lay
As robes we weare alway?
But as from age to age,
So passe from rage to rage?
Our hands shall we not rest
To bath in our owne brest?
And shall thick in each land
Our wretched trophees stand,
To tell posteritie,
What madd Impietie
Our stonie stomakes ledd
Against the place vs bredd?
Then still must heauen view
The plagues that vs pursue:
And euery where descrie
Heaps of vs scattred lie,
Making the straunger plaines
Fatt with our bleeding raines,
Proud that on them their graue
So manie legions haue.
And with our fleshes still
_Neptune_ his fishes fill
And dronke with bloud from blue
The sea take blushing hue:
As iuice of _Tyrian_ shell,
When clarified well
To wolle of finest fields
A purple glosse it yelds.
But since the rule of _Rome_,
To one mans hand is come,
Who gouernes without mate
Hir now vnited state,
Late iointlie rulde by three
Enuieng mutuallie,
Whose triple yoke much woe
On _Latines_ necks did throwe:
I hope the cause of iarre,
And of this bloudie warre,
And deadlie discord gone
By what we last haue done:
Our banks shall cherish now
The branchie pale-hew'd bow
Of _Oliue_, _Pallas_ praise,
In stede of barraine bayes.
And that his temple dore,
Which bloudie _Mars_ before
Held open, now at last
Olde _Ianus_ shall make fast:
And rust the sword consume,
And spoild of wauing plume,
The vseles morion shall
On crooke hang by the wall.
At least if warre returne
It shall not here soiourne,
To kill vs with those armes
Were forg'd for others harmes:
But haue their pointes addrest,
Against the _Germaines_ brest,
The _Parthians_ fayned flight,
The _Biscaines_ martiall might.
Olde Memorie doth there
Painted on forhead weare
Our Fathers praise: thence torne
Our triumphes baies haue worne:
Therby our matchles _Rome_
Whilome of Shepeheards come
Rais'd to this greatnes stands,
The Queene of forraine lands.
Which now euen seemes to face
The heau'ns, her glories place:
Nought resting vnder Skies
That dares affront her eies.
So that she needes but feare
The weapons _Ioue_ doth beare,
Who angrie at one blowe
May her quite ouerthrowe.

Act. 5.