Such dismall deeds and blacke confusion, By proud Rome’s twice-seuen sonnes intended were Against the time of that inuasion, Report whereof with terror and with feare, Swift-winged fame about the world did beare; But high heau’n’s King, who for his seruant chose Our virgin queene, their drifts did soone disclose. 133. Their plot bewray’d, each one did seeke t’escape, Vengeance pursuing them from place to place, Hight _Babington_ attir’d in rusticke shape, With walnut-leaues discolouring his face, Did seeke t’escape sad death and foule disgrace: And all the rest being clad in strange disguise, With trembling feare did seeke to shun surprise. 134. As guiltie homicides, that in dead night Pursu’d for tragick deeds of dismall death, To woods and groues disperst, do take their flight, Whose gloomie shade they trembling stand beneath, With fainting knees, cold spirit and panting breath, With feare, expecting at their backes behinde, The pursuit made at euery puffe of winde: 135. Euen so these wretched men, whose selfe-doom’d soules, Now prickt with deepe remorse, did daily looke To be the spoile and prey of hungrie fowles, From place to place their couert passage tooke, Whose hearts the thought of death with horror shooke, Vntill surpriz’d at length, vntimely death To end this feare expir’d their fainting breath. 136. Of whose surprise, when as the trumpe of fame Had blowen the blast, the subiect euer giuen To blesse the fate of so diuine a dame, For this so strange escape did morne and euen, With praises magnifie the King of heau’n, Imploring still his gratious hands for helpes, Against the danger of that dragon’s whelpes. 137. That day was held diuine, and all the night Consum’d in pæans to th’Olympian king, Then crown’d they cups of wine, and with delight At sumptuous feasts did sit, while belles did ring, And sweet voic’d minstrels round about did sing, Whose suppers sauour wrapt in clouds on high, The friendly winds blew vp into the skie. 138. And as the siluer moone in calmest night, When she in shining coach the skies doth scale, As golden starres, that in the heau’ns shine bright, When gentle Auster blowes a pleasing gale, Do glad the shepheards in the lowly vaile: So many thousand flames, that glaz’d the skies, Did at that time glad all true English eies. 139.