Are they that had transformde these noble peeres:
They turnde theire bloud to melancholicke fleume,
Their courage hault to cowardise extreame,
Their force and manhoode, into fraud and malice,
Their wit to wyles, stout Hector into Paris.
67.
These glauerers gone, my selfe to rest I layde,
And doubting nothing, soundly fell a sleepe:
But sodainly my seruaunts, sore afrayde,
Awaked me, and drawing sighes full deepe: