Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny,
Thus far into the bowels of the land
Have we march’d on without impediment;
5 And here receive we from our father Stanley
Lines of fair comfort and encouragement.
[♦] The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar,
[♦] That spoil’d your summer fields and fruitful vines,
[♦] Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough
[10] In your embowell’d bosoms, this foul swine
[♦] Lies now even in the centre of this isle,