Detested stock of viper’s bloodie brood,
That sought to satisfie your burning thirst
By drinking vp your dying mother’s blood,
Making her death your life, her hurt your good;
Your deeds are sunke to Plutoe’s darksome den,
Shame is your portion mongst the sonnes of men.
72.
Mee seemes, I see them walk about the brim
Of black Styx dangerous flood, where Dis doth wonne,
Prince of dead night and darknesse gloomie grim,