Now cleare the triple region of the aire,
And let the majestie of heaven beholde
Their Scourge and Terrour treade on Emperours.
Smile Stars that raign'd at my nativity,
And dim the brightnesse of their neighbor Lamps:
Disdaine to borrow light of Cynthia,
For I the chiefest Lamp of all the earth,
First rising in the East with milde aspect,
But fixed now in the Meridian line,
Will send up fire to your turning Spheares,
And cause the Sun to borrowe light of you.
My sword stroke fire from his coat of steele,
Even in Bythinia, when I took this Turke:
As when a fiery exhalation
Wrapt in the bowels of a freezing cloude,
Fighting for passage, makes the Welkin cracke,
And casts a flash of lightning to the earth.
But ere I martch to wealthy Persea,
Or leave Damascus and th'Egyptian fields,
As was the fame of
Clymens
brain-sicke sonne,
That almost brent the Axeltree of heaven,
So shall our swords, our lances and our shot,
Fill all the aire with fiery meteors.
Then when the Sky shal waxe as red as blood,
It shall be said, Imade it red my selfe,
To make me think of nought but blood and war.
