XV.

Ye pallid spirits, and ye ashie ghoasts, Which, ioying in the brightnes of your day, Brought foorth those signes of your presumptuous boasts Which now their dusty reliques do bewray, Tell me, ye spirits! (sith the darksome river Of Styx, not passable to soules returning, Enclosing you in thrice three wards for ever, Doo not restraine your images still mourning,) Tell me then, (for perhaps some one of you Yet here above him secretly doth hide,) Doo ye not feele your torments to accrewe, When ye sometimes behold the ruin’d pride Of these old Romane works, built with your hands, To become nought els but heaped sands?