scat'red clouds
With fiery beames, most like vnbroaded haires:
The fearefull dragon whistling at the bankes,
And holie _Apis_ ceaseles bellowing
(As neuer erst) and shedding endles teares:
Bloud raining downe from heau'n in vnknow'n showers:
Our Gods darke faces ouercast with woe,
And dead mens Ghosts appearing in the night.
Yea euen this night while all the Cittie stoode
Opprest with terror, horror, seruile feare,
Deepe silence ouer all: the sounds were heard
Of diuerse songs, and diuers instruments,
Within the voide of aire: and howling noise,
Such as madde _Bacchus_ priests in _Bacchus_ feasts
On _Nisa_ make: and (seem'd) the company,
Our Cittie lost, went to the enemie.
So we forsaken both of Gods and men,
So are we in the mercy of our foes:
And we hencefoorth obedient must become
To lawes of them who haue vs ouercome.

Chorus.

Lament we our mishaps,
Drowne we with teares our woe:
For Lamentable happes
Lamented easie growe:
And much lesse torment bring
Then when they first did spring.
We want that wofull song,
Wherwith wood-musiques Queene
Doth ease her woes, among,
fresh springtimes bushes greene,
On pleasant branche alone
Renewing auntient mone.
We want that monefull sounde,
That pratling _Progne_ makes
On fieldes of _Thracian_ ground,
Or streames of _Thracian_ lakes:
To empt her brest of paine
For _Itys_ by her slaine.
Though _Halcyons_ doo still,
Bewailing _Ceyx_ lot,
The Seas with plainings fill
Which his dead limmes haue got,
Not euer other graue
Then tombe of waues to haue:
And though the birde in death
That most _Meander_ loues
So swetely sighes his breath
When death his fury proues,_
_As almost softs his heart,
And almost blunts his dart:
Yet all the plaints of those,
Nor all their tearfull larmes,
Cannot content our woes,
Nor serue to waile the harmes,
In soule which we, poore we,
To feele enforced be.
Nor they of _Phaebus_ bredd
In teares can doo so well,
They for their brother shedd,
Who into _Padus_ fell,
Rash guide of chariot cleare
Surueiour of the yeare.
Nor she whom heau'nly powers
To weping rocke did turne,
Whose teares distill in showers,
And shew she yet doth mourne.
Where with his toppe to Skies
Mount _Sipylus_ dot