Sonnets, Sonnet VIII

Wo worth the man, who in ill hour assay'd To tempt that western frith with vent'rous keel, And seek what heav'n, regardful of our weal, Had hid in fogs, and night's eternal shade.

Ill-starr'd Hibernia! well art thou appaid For all the woes, that Britain made thee feel By Henry's wrath, and Pembroke's conqu'ring steel, Who sack'd thy towns, and castles disarray'd:

No longer now with idle sorrow mourn Thy plunder'd wealth, or liberties restrain'd, Nor deem their victories thy loss or shame; Severe revenge on Britain in thy turn And ample spoils thy treach'rous waves obtain'd, Which sunk one half of Spenser's deathless fame.