LVI.

What busy motions, what wild engines stand On tiptoe in their giddy braynes! th' have fire Already in their bosomes, and their hand Already reaches at a sword; they hire Poysons to speed thee; yet through all the Land What one comes to reveale what they conspire? Goe now, make much of these; wage still their wars And bring home on thy brest, more thanklesse scarrs.