Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.
The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.
Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.