D'HAVRE

Monsieur Champagne, great Antwerps Gouer nou_r_, Will you refuse these fair and fresh supplies? Sent from the Prince of Orange and the States, Under our Conduct for your Cities guard? Outwords and honours be engaged for it. What says the Colonel of the Almains to it? By this supposal you enfeeble us, And tax our worth with indiscretion, As though our skill and our Authority, Stood upon bases of weak discipline. Just 3000, foot, One thousand horse, 800. at the least. Count Egmont, surely Ant werpe is bewitched, Security hath slain their providence, And riches makes them retchless of their friends; We must assume the charge upon ourselves, And pray the Prince and States to bear the pay; Or else their private avarice, will pull Public destruction on this flower of towns, To the disgrace of all the Netherlands. Governor of Antwerp, how are you resolved? What if he do? What benefit (good Countrymen) gain we, That prostitute our Fortune's and our blood, In your defence? There stay our forces. The cause is murder, misery and death: You men of Antwerp, if with all the speed And expedition, that in men remains, You take not weapons to repulse the foe, That Like a swarm of deadly stinging Hornets, Have all this while lay hid within their nest; But now do fly abroad with dreadful noise, As if so many Furies were awaked. To arms then all that love your Countries peace. Are you so dull of ence? And still so lulled in your security? Whom should I mean, but bloody Danila, And furious Alva his compear in arms, That fill the Castle yard with their Battilions, And strive to take possession of your streets: To arms then straight, if you will keep them back. They cannot but confess so much Count Eg mont. What need advantage, where is no resist? Not while I have a hand to lift my sword. Alas poor Lenchy, whither shall we go: Where is my Father? Let us go thither? Ah whither shall we go? Nay M. Hulders Orchard is hard by. Wee'll get in there, and hide's among the trees, Alas the Spaniard's coming, what shall we do? Alas poor Lenchy, kiss me pretty Sister, Now we must die. But they will kill thee, Alas where is my poor old Father now, and my poor more there? I pray you M. Spaniard hurt us not, We are poor children, we have done no harm. Ah Master Spaniard do not kill my Sister, My father is a poor blind man, and he will die, If you kill her. Good Master Spaniard do not kill us, Take any thing we have, but save our lives. Here Father, here, alas we shall be killed. Father, here. Insatiate Alva, that Like Sun-ri e ground, Never sufficed with sweetest showers that fallen, But with a thousand mouths gapes still for more. So thy desire of blood never satisfied, With the rich tribute of so many lives, Whose guiltless blood hath died poor Belgius checks, And changed her Like a drunken Bacchanall, Still with a thousand quenchless appe es, Dost thirst for more, as if that epithet Were the sole object of thy hearts best hope Know Tyrant, Marks Hauurie flies thee not, As fearing all the uttermost thou canst, But the oppression of unequal power, False treason, that betrayed our lives to thee, And the sharp scourge, that found security, Hath justly thrown on A twerpes wilfulness