Cosmo had like beene kild; the Boare receiving A Speare full in the Flanke from Cosmo's hand, Foaming with rage he ranne at him, unhorst him And had, but that he fell behinde an Oake Of admirable greatnesse, torne out his bowels; His very Tuskes, striking into the tree, Made the old Champion shake.

Yes, O yes, if any Maid, Whom lering Cupid has betraid To frownes of spite, to eyes of scorne, And would in madnes now see torne The Boy in PiecesLet her come Hither, and lay on him her doome.

And a faire fortunate Soldier: I hold the State, Sir, Most happie in his care, and this torne Cuntry, Whose wounds smart yet, most bound to his deliveraunce.