Hath lost this Realme inflamed with his fire.
Loue, playing loue, which men say kindles not
But in soft harts, hath ashes made our townes.
And his sweet shafts, with whose shot none are kill’d,
Which vlcer not, with deaths our lands haue fill’d,
Such was the bloudie, murdring, hellish loue
Possest thy hart faire false guest Priams Sonne,
The Troian towers by Græcians ruinate.
By this loue, Priam, Hector, Troilus,
Memnon, Deiphobus, Glaucus, thousands mo,