What two brave perills of the private sword
Could not effect, not all the furies doe,
That selfe-devided Belgia did afford;
What not the envie of the seas reach'd too,
The cold of Mosco, and fat Irish ayre,
His often change of clime (though not of mind)
What could not worke; at home in his repaire
Was his blest fate, but our hard lot to find.
Which shewes, where ever death doth please t' appeare,
Seas, serenes, swords, shot, sicknesse, all are there.