Direct reading · Original
Section 593
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Tit.
He doth me wrong to feed me with delayes,
Ile diue into the burning Lake below,
And pull her out of Acaron by the
heeles.
Marcus we are but shrubs, no Cedars
we,
No big‑bon'd‑men, fram'd of the
Cyclops size,
But mettall Marcus steele to the
very backe,
Yet wrung with wrongs more then our backe can beare:
And sith there's no iustice in earth nor hell,
We will sollicite heauen, and moue the Gods
To send downe Iustice for to wreake our wongs:
Come to this geare, you are a good Archer Marcus.