Grim-visag’d-like the grizly dreaded night,
In noysome fumes and mistie fogs bedight:
The aire once pure and thin, now wing’d with death
Grewe gloomie thick, being poyson’d by her breath,
In which, I thought, she took her horrid stand,
And with fierce look and stiff-bent bowe in hand,
She drew her shafts, impatient in her minde,
From forth her quiuer at her back behinde:
Then did I thinke vpon the shreekes and cries
Of dying soules, that did ascend the skies