And then a heavenly Childe gave her Ambrosian pap,
And to that braine of hers your highest gifts infused:
Since she disdaining me, doth you in me disdaine,
Suffer not her to laugh, and both we suffer paine:
Princes in subjects wrongd must deeme themselves abused.
6 Your client poore, my selfe, shall Stella handle so,
Revenge, revenge, my Muse defiance trumpet blowe,
Threat, threat, what may be done; yet do no more but threaten:
Ah, my sute granted is, I feele my breast doth swell;
Now Childe, a lesson new you shall begin to spell,