My scattred men without their ensignes strai’d:

Cæsar meane while who neuer would haue dar’de

To cope with me, me sodainlie despis’de,

Tooke hart to fight, and hop’de for victorie

On one so gone, who glorie had forgone.

Lu. Enchaunting pleasure; Venus swete delights

Weaken our bodies, ouer-cloud our sprights,

Trouble our reason, from our harts out chase

All holie vertues lodging in their place.

Like as the cunning fisher takes the fishe