ΒΑΤΡΑΧΟΜΥΟΜΑΧΙΑ.
11
To let me haue the mantle to restore.And this is it, that rubs the angrie soreOf my offence tooke, at these petulant Mise.Nor will I yeeld, the Froggs wants, my supplies,For their infirme mindes; that no confines keepe;For I, from warre retir'd; and wanting sleepe;All lept ashore in tumult; nor would staieTill one winck seas'd myne eyes: and so I laieSleeplesse, and pain'de with headach; till first lightThe Cock had crow'd vp. Therefore, to the fightLet no God goe assistent; lest a lanceWound whosoeuer offers to aduance;Or wishes but their aid; that skorne all foes;Should any Gods accesse, their spirits oppose.Sit we then pleas'd, to see from heauen, their fight.She said; and all Gods ioin'd in her delight.And now, both Hosts, to one field drew the iarre;Both Heralds bearing the ostents of warre.And then the [1]wine-Gnats, that shrill Trumpets soundTerriblie rung out, the encounter, round.Ioue thundred; all heauen, sad warrs signe resounded.And first, [2]Hypsiboas,[3]Lychenor wounded,Standing th'impression of the first in fight.His lance did, in his Lyuers midsts alight,Along his bellie. Downe he fell; his face,His fall on that part swaid; and all the graceOf his soft hayre, fil'd with disgracefull dust.Then [4]Troglodytes, his thick iaueline thrust
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