The sea, the aire, the fire, the day, the night,
And th’ armies of their creatures all and some
Do serve to them, and with importune might
Warre against us the vassals of their will.
Who then can save what they dispose to spill?
Not thou, O Clarion, though fairest thou
Of all thy kinde, unhappie happie Flie,
Whose cruell fate is woven even now
Of Ioves owne hand, to worke thy miserie!
Ne may thee help the manie hartie vow,