No, nor the hand which thunder,
The hand of Ioue which thunder beares,
And ribbs of rocks in sunder teares,
Teares mountains sides in sunder:
Nor bloudie Marses butchering bands,
Whose lightnings desert laie the lands
whome dustie cloudes do couer:
From of whose armour sun-beames flie,
And vnder them make quaking lie
The plaines wheron they houer: