Well, bark, ye dogs; I'll bridle all your tongues.

Where death cuts off the progress of his pomp And murderous fates throw all his triumphs down.

Let Earth and Heaven his timeless death deplore, For both their worths shall equal him no more.

From jigging veins of rhyming mother wits, And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay, We'll lead you to the stately tent of war, Where you shall hear the Scyt…