But too to soone my hartlesse men it made,
To shrinke, to flinche, to flee eche man his way,
And me a pray most fit for Claudius blade,
They left alone: alas, what may be sayde,
What may be done, what fittes for mine auayle?
I wyl not flee, to fight cannot preuayle.
33.
What, must I then go crouche vnto my foe?
Fy on that fate, that I should sue for grace
To hym who is the worker of my woe,