For he died splinted with his chamber groomes.
Prop me, true sword, as thou hast ever done!
The equall thought I beare of life and death95
Shall make me faint on no side; I am up.
Here, like a Roman statue, I will stand
Till death hath made me marble. O my fame
Live in despight of murther! take thy wings
And haste thee where the gray-ey'd morn perfumes100
Her rosie chariot with Sabæan spices!
Fly where the evening from th'Iberean vales