But now to sing the spoile and last decay
Of that faire towne by her owne folke forlorne,
The host all readie to depart away,
Intending first in funerall flames to burne
Her fatall pride, and all her pompe oreturne,
Did in thicke concourse cluster to confound,
Her high top towers and eu’n them with the ground.
430.
In number like the golden flowers in spring,
In forme like furies of the Stygian caue: