Ah sister, sister, now I call to minde, Thy dying wordes now prov'd a prophesie, If you deale ill with this distressed childe, God will no doubt revenge the innocent.

I will be plainer: know, Pertillos life, Which thou doost call a dove, an innocent, A harmlesse childe, and, and I know not what, Will harm thee more, than any Serpent can, I, then the very sight of Basiliskes.

"Among them all, both great and small, A good stout knight was there, A lusty childe, and eke a tall, That loved a lady fair.

And thou, most dread Octavius, which oft 35 To learned wits givest courage worthily, O come, thou sacred childe, come sliding soft, And favour my beginnings graciously: For not these leaves do sing that dreadfull stound*, When giants bloud did staine Phlegraean ground; 40 [* Stound, time.]