XV.

Ye pallid spirits, and ye ashie ghoasts,
Which, ioying in the brightnes of your day,
Brought foorth those signes of your presumptuous boasts
Which now their dusty reliques do bewray,
Tell me, ye spirits! (sith the darksome river
Of Styx, not passable to soules returning,
Enclosing you in thrice three wards for ever,
Doo not restraine your images still mourning,)
Tell me then, (for perhaps some one of you
Yet here above him secretly doth hide,)
Doo ye not feele your torments to accrewe,
When ye sometimes behold the ruin’d pride
  Of these old Romane works, built with your hands,
  To become nought els but heaped sands?

XVI.

Like as ye see the wrathfull sea from farre
In a great mountaine heap’t with hideous noyse,
Eftsoones of thousand billowes shouldred narre*,
Against a rocke to breake with dreadfull poyse;
Like as ye see fell Boreas with sharpe blast
Tossing huge tempests through the troubled skie,
Eftsoones having his wide wings spent in wast,
To stop his wearie cariere** suddenly;
And as ye see huge flames spred diverslie,
Gathered in one up to the heavens to spyre,
Eftsoones consum’d to fall downe feebily,
So whilom did this monarchie aspyre
  As waves, as winde, as fire, spred over all,
  Till it by fatall doome adowne did fall.
[* Narre, nearer.]
[** Cariere, career.]

XVII.

So long as Ioves great bird did make his flight,
Bearing the fire with which heaven doth us fray,
Heaven had not feare of that presumptuous might,
With which the giaunts did the gods assay: 
But all so soone as scortching sunne had brent*
His wings which wont the earth to overspredd,
The earth out of her massie wombe forth sent
That antique horror which made heaven adredd. 
Then was the Germane raven in disguise
That Romane eagle seene to cleave asunder,
And towards heaven freshly to arise
Out of these mountaines, now consum’d to pouder. 
  In which the foule that serves to beare the lightning
  Is now no more seen flying nor alighting.
[* Brent, burned.]

XVIII.

These heapes of stones, these old wals which ye see,
Were first enclosures but of salvage soyle;
And these brave pallaces, which maystred bee
Of time, were shepheards cottages somewhile. 
Then tooke the shepheards kingly ornaments
And the stout hynde arm’d his right hand with steele: 
Eftsoones their rule of yearely presidents
Grew great, and sixe months greater a great deele;
Which, made perpetuall, rose to so great might,
That thence th’imperiall eagle rooting tooke,
Till th’heaven it selfe, opposing gainst her might,
Her power to Peters successor betooke,
  Who, shepheardlike, (as Fates the same foreseeing,)
  Doth shew that all things turne to their first being.
[XVIII. 8.—­Sixe months, &c.  The term of the dictatorship at Rome.]