Heaven and this arm once say’d thee from thy foe,
When his all-wrathful sword did basely point
At the rich circle of thy labouring heart,
Thou grovelling under indignation
Of sword and ruth. O, then stepp’d heaven and I
Between the stroke, but now alack must die.
Since so the powers above have writ it down
In marble leaves, that death is mortal crown,
Come then, my friend, in purple I will bear
Thee to my private tent, and then prepare