I sing of deadly dolorous Debate,
Stirr’d up through wrathful Nemesis Despight,
Betwixt two mighty Ones of great Estate,
Drawn into Arms, and proof of mortal Fight,
Through proud Ambition, and heart-swelling Hate;
Whilst neither could the other’s greater Might
And ‘sdainful Scorn endure that from small Jar
Their Wraths at length broke into open War.
The Root whereof and tragical Effect,
Vouchsafe, O thou the mournful’st Muse of Nine,
That wont’st the tragick Stage for to direct,
In funeral Complaints and wailful Tine,
Reveal to me, and all the Means detect,
Through which sad Clarion did at last decline
To lowest Wretchedness; and is there then
Such Rancour in the Hearts of mighty Men?
Of all the Race of silver-winged Flies
Which do possess the Empire of the Air,
Betwixt the centred Earth, and azure Skies,
Was none more favorable, nor more fair,
Whilst Heaven did favour his Felicities,
Than Clarion, the eldest Son and Heir
Of Muscarol, and in his Father’s sight
Of all alive did seem the fairest Wight.
With fruitful Hope his aged Breast he fed
Of future Good, which his young toward Years,
Full of brave Courage and bold Hardy-hed,
Above th’ ensample of his equal Peers,
Did largely promise, and to him fore-red,
(Whilst oft his Heart did melt in tender Tears)
That he in time would sure prove such an one,
As should be worthy of his Father’s Throne.
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