Which ouercharg’d with seed their heads do bow
Are by the reaper downe in handfuls borne,
Who for that meed, which th’owner doth allow,
Still plies his labour with a sweatie brow;
So th’English did with sword and fire despoile
The fruitfull plentie of that pleasant soile.
323.
That strong street-fenced towne, Vigo by name,
In ashie heapes on ground did groueling lie,
And on the swift wings of a golden flame,