 | The tragedy of Albovine, King of the Lombards |  |
To his noble Friend, th'Author on his Tragedy of Albouine.
The gelid North growes warme, and by thy fireCold ignorance exil'd. The Virgin Quire
O'th' soft-hayr'd Muses leaue the Thespian Spring,
To tread a fun'rall Measure, whilst you sing
This Tragick Storie. With sad plaints of loue
Fam'd Orpheus charm'd rude heapes, did Cedars mooue,
Forc'd Mountaines from their station: but thy Pen
Hath now amaz'd the firie soules of men.
Will: Habington.
| The tragedy of Albovine, King of the Lombards | |