I take it kindly; yet be well assured
You put sharp weapons in a madman’s hands.
[♦] Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band,
I will stir up in England some black storm
350 Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell;
And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage
Until the golden circuit on my head,
Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams,
[♦] Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw.
355 And, for a minister of my intent,