He snatch’d his sword now rusted o’re,
Dreadful and sparkling now no more,
And thus in open streets did roar:
How have I death so ill deserv’d of thee,
That now thy self thou shouldst revenge on me?
Have I so many lives on thee bestow’d?
Have I the earth so often dy’d in blood?
Have I to flatter thee so many slain?
And must I now thy prey remain?
Let me at least, if I must dye,