The war-gods thundring cannons dreadfull rore,
And ratling drum-sounds warlike harmonie,
To sweet tun’d noise of pleasing minstralsie,
The haile-like shot, to tennis balles were turn’d,
And sweet perfumes in stead of smoakes were burn’d.
18.
God Mars laid by his launce and tooke his lute,
And turn’d his rugged frownes to smiling lookes,
In stead of crimson fields, warre’s fatall fruits,
He bath’d his limbes in Cypris’ warbling brookes,