Shall, O Rome, thy beauties burne,
And to humble ashes turne
Thy proud wealth, and rich attire,
Those guilt roofes which turretwise,
Iustly making Enuie mourne,
Threaten now to pearce Skies.
As thy forces fill each land
Haruests making here and there,
Reaping all with rauening hand
They finde growing any where: