Cosin tis he, I know him by his look.
See where my Souldier shot him through the arm.
He mist him neer, but we have strook him now.
Ah base Shatillian and degenerate,
Cheef standard bearer to the Lutheranes,
Thus in despite of thy Religion,
The Duke of Guise stampes on thy liveles bulke.
Away with him, cut of his head and handes,
And send them for a present to the Pope:
And when this just revenge is finished,
Unto mount Faucon will we dragge his coarse:
And he that living hated so the crosse,
Shall being dead, be hangd thereon in chaines.
