And at the last, by Avarice was slaine.
Vile Auarice, why hast thou kildd my Deare?
And robd the World, of such a worthy Treasure?
In whome no sparke of goodnesse doth appeare,
So greedie is thy mind, without all measure,
Thy death, from Death did merit to release her:
The Murtherers deseru'd to die, not Caesar.
The Merchants wife; the Tender-hearted Mother
That leaues her loue; whose Sonne is prest for warre;
(Resting, the one; as woefull as the other;)