Loc.
Seven Years hath aged Corineius liv'd
To Locrine's Grief, and fair Estrilda's Woe,
And seven Years more he hopeth yet to live.
Oh supreme Jove, annihilate this thought.
Should he enjoy the Air's Fruition?
Should he enjoy the Benefit of Life?
Should he contemplate the radiant Sun,
That makes my Life equal to dreadful Death?
Venus convey this Monster from the Earth,
That disobeyeth thus thy sacred Hests.
Cupid convey this Monster to dark Hell,
That disannuls thy Mother's sugar'd Laws.
Mars with thy Target all beset with Flames,
With murthering Blade bereave him of his Life,
That hindreth Locrine in his sweetest Joys.
And yet for all his diligent aspect,
His wrathful Eyes piercing like Linces Eyes,
Well have I overmatch'd his Subtilty.

Nigh Deucolitum by the pleasant Lee,
Where brackish Thamis slides with silver Streams,
Making a Breach into the grassie Downs,
A curiou Arch of costly Marble fraught,
Hath Locrine framed underneath the Ground,
The Walls whereof, garnisht with Diamonds,
With Ophirs, Rubies, glistering Emeralds,
And interlac'd with Sun-bright Carbuncles,
Lightens the room with artificial Day,
And from the Lee with Water-flowing Pipes
The moisture is deriv'd into this Arch,
Where I have plac'd fair Estrild secretly.
Thither eftsoons accompanied with my Page,
I covertly visit my Heart's Desire,
Without suspicion of the meanest Eye,
For Love aboundeth still with Policy.
And thither still means Locrine to repair,
'Till Atropos cut off mine Uncle's Life, [Exit.

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