Behold these robes, maps of my fortunes world, Torne, and distaind with eye-scornd beggerie; These rags deuide the Zones, wherein is hurld My liues distemprate, hote cold miserie; These teares are points, the scale these hairs vncurld, My hands the compasse, woe the emperie: And these my plaints, true and auriculer, Are to my Globe the perpendiculer. Looke how I am, such art thou like to be If armes preuent not heauens intendiment, _Grinuile_, which now surfeits with dignitie, Burd'ning the Sea with my disparagement; Chiding the wanton winds if greedelie They kisse his sailes; or els too slowlie vent, Like _Ioue_, which bad the day be and it was, So bids he Conquest warre; she brings to passe. The sole incouragement he giues his power, Is Prophet-like presaging of thy death, Courage he cries, euen in the dying hower, And with his words, recalls departing breath; O (sayes he to his Mat's) you are my glories tower, Impregnable, wall'd with vnuanquisht faith, You are the hands and agents of my trust, I but the hart reuoluing what we must. Liue Saints, til we haue ript the wombe of _Spayne_, And wounded _Error_ in the armes of hell, Crushing the triple Myter in disdaine, Which on the seauenfold mounted Witch doth dwel, Angells rewards for such dissignes remaine, And on heauens face men shall your stories tell; At this they shoute; as eager of the pray, As Ants in winter of a sunne-shine day. Thus like triumphant _Cæsar_ drawne in Rome, By winged _Valure_, and vnconquered _Chaunce_, He plowes the Sea (ô were it made his tombe) Whilst _Happy-fortune_ pypes unto his daunce. Yet may thy power alternat heauens doome, So pleaseth thee thy forward will t'aduance, And cheare the sinews of thy mighty arme, Whose out-strecht force shall quell his proud alarme. Then giue newe fuell to his honours fier, Least slight regard wealth-winning _Error_ slay, And so old _Saturns_ happie world retyer, Making _Trueths_ dungion brighter than the day; Was neuer woe could wound thy kingdom nyer, Or of thy borrowed beautie make display, Because this vow in heauens booke doth remaine, That _Errors_ death shall consumate thy raigne. Now, for my god-heads remnant liues in thee, Whose lost successe breeds mine eternall end, Take for thine ayde, afflicting _Miserie_, _Woe_, mine attendant, and _Dispayre_ my freend, All three my greatest great _Triumuerie_, Blood bath'd _Carnifici_, which will protend A murdring desolation to that will, Which me in thee, and thee in mee would kill. Here, with her fixed Comet-blazing eyes, The damned _Augurs_ of vntimely death, Shee ends her tale, whilst from her harts caue flyes A storme of winds, no gentle sighing breath, All which, like euill spirits in disguise, Enter _Iberias_ eares, and to her sayth, That all the substance of this damned storie, Was zealous true, coyned for her _Spanish_ glorie.