When civill sworde is drawen out of the sheathe,
And bluddie broiles, at home are set a broache,
Then furious Mars with sworde doth rage beneathe,
And to the Toppe, devowring flames incroache,
None helpes to quenche, but rather blowes the flame,
And oile doe adde, and powder to the same.
Intestine strife, is fearefull moste of all,
This, makes the Sonne, to cut his fathers throate,
This, parteth frendes, this, brothers makes to bralle,
This, robbes the good, and setts the theeves a floate,
This, Rome did feele, this, Germanie did taste,
And often times, this noble Lande did waste.