By their firme valor, what rich prize was wone.
64.
The conquerd nations of the Indian soyle,
At whose huge wealth the world is made to wonder,
Their mother’s wombe were forced to dispoyle,
And rudely rend her golden ribs in sunder,
Thereby to set on wing warre’s roring thunder:
For souldiers thoughts on golden wings flie far,
And earth’s rich spoiles are sinewes of the war.
65.