 | Pharonnida |  |
Not far they'd past ere they the place had found
Where groveling in a stream of blood, the ground
His purple-bed, the wearied Prince they see
Strugling with death, from whose dark monarchie
Pale troops assail his cheeks, whilst his dim eies
Like a spent lamp which ere its weak flame dies,
In giddy blazes glares, as if his soul
Were at those casements flying out, did roll
Swifter then thought their bloodshot orbs; his hands
Did with deaths agues tremble; cold dew stands
Upon his clammy lips; the springs of blood
(Having breath'd forth the spirits) clotted stood
On that majestick brow, whose dreadful frown
Had to deaths scepter laid its terror down.
Where groveling in a stream of blood, the ground
His purple-bed, the wearied Prince they see
Strugling with death, from whose dark monarchie
Pale troops assail his cheeks, whilst his dim eies
Like a spent lamp which ere its weak flame dies,
In giddy blazes glares, as if his soul
Were at those casements flying out, did roll
Swifter then thought their bloodshot orbs; his hands
Did with deaths agues tremble; cold dew stands
Upon his clammy lips; the springs of blood
(Having breath'd forth the spirits) clotted stood
On that majestick brow, whose dreadful frown
Had to deaths scepter laid its terror down.
| Pharonnida | |