Xix

Who thereat wondrous wroth, the sleeping spark Of native vertue gan eftsoones revive, And at his haughtie helmet making mark, So hugely stroke, that it the steele did rive, And cleft his head. He tumbling downe alive, With bloudy mouth his mother earth did kis. Greeting his grave: his grudging° ghost did strive With the fraile flesh; at last it flitted is, Whither the soules do fly of men that live amis.