The bastard covey of Italian birds,
Shall feel the flames of ever-flaming fire,
Which are not quenched with a sea of tears.
And since in thee some glorious star must shine,
When many years and ages are expir’d,
Whose beams shall clear the mist of miscontent,
And make the damp of Pluto’s pit retire,
Gorlois will never fray the Britons more:
For Britain then becomes an angel’s land.
Both devils and sprites must yield to angels’ power,