I.

Muse, now the servant of soft loves no more, Hate is thy theame, and Herod, whose unblest Hand (O what dares not jealous greatnesse?) tore A thousand sweet babes from their mothers' brest: The bloomes of martyrdome. O be a dore Of language to my infant lips, yee best Of confessours: whose throates answering his swords, Gave forth your blood for breath, spoke soules for words.