The heape of ills did sturre, And sicknes pale and colde Our ende which onward spurre, To plague our hands too bolde To filch the wealth of Skies. In heauens hate since then Of ill with ill enchain’d We race of mortall men full fraught our breasts haue borne: And thousand thousand woes Our heau’nly soules now thorne, Which free before from those No! earthly passion pain’d. Warre and warres bitter cheare Now long time with vs staie, And feare of hated foe Still still encreaseth sore: Our harmes worse dayly growe, Lesse yesterdaye they were Then now, and will be more To morowe then to daye. Act. 2. _Philostratus._ What horrible furie, what cruell rage, O _Ægipt_ so extremely thee torments? Hast thou the Gods so angred by thy fault? Hast thou against them some such crime conceiu’d, That their engrained hand lift vp in threats They should desire in thy hard bloud to bathe? And that their burning wrath which nought can quench Should pittiles on vs still lighten downe? We are not hew’n out of the monst’rous masse Of _Giantes_ those, which heauens wrack conspir’d: _Ixions_ race, false prater of his loues: Nor yet of him who fained lightnings found: Nor cruell _Tantalus_, nor bloudie _Atreus_, Whose cursed banquet for _Thyestes_ plague Made the beholding Sunne for horrour turne His backe, and backward from his course returne: And hastning his wing-footed horses race Plunge him in sea for shame to hide his face: While sulleine night vpon the wondring world For mid-daies light her starrie mantle cast, But what we be, what euer wickednes By vs is done, Alas! with what more plagues, More eager torments could the Gods declare To heauen and earth that vs they hatefull holde? With Souldiors, strangers, horrible in armes Our land is hidde, our people drown’d in teares. But terror here and horror, nought is seene: And present death prizing our life each hower. Hard at our ports and at our porches waites Our conquering foe: harts faile vs, hopes are dead: Our Queene laments: and this great Emperour Sometime (would now they did) whom worlds did feare, Abandoned, betraid, now mindes no more But from his euils by hast’ned death to passe. Come you poore people tir’de with ceasles plaints With teares and sighes make mournfull sacrifice On _Isis_ altars: not our selues to saue, But soften _Cæsar_ and him piteous make To vs, his pray: that so his lenitie May change our death into captiuitie. Strange are the euils the fates on vs haue brought, O but alas! how farre more strange the cause! Loue, loue (alas, who euer would haue thought?) Hath lost this Realme inflamed with his fire. Loue, playing loue, which men say kindles not But in soft harts, hath ashes made our townes. And his sweet shafts, with whose shot none are kill’d, Which vlcer not, with deaths our lands haue fill’d,