That vilifie my praise with lips prophane,
Speaking what then the superstitious wits
Vnto this age recorded haue in writs.
5.
Could not the enuie of that age be quell’d
With my last houre’s vntimely tragedie?
Could not these burning veines with poison swell’d,
Their deadly hate against me satisfie?
O no, in death their malice will not die:
For which now summon’d by the trumpe of fame,