His humble ryght hande caught he hath,
and ragyng rownde abowt

Him rolled twyse, or thryse hath cast,
his head resoundeth owt,

The sprynkled howses with the brayne
of hym throwne owt are wet.

But shee poore wretche her lyttle sonne
in bosome hydyng yet

Loe Megara, lyke one in rage
doothe from the corners flee.

HER. Thowgh runnagate in bosome of
the thundrer hydde thou bee,

This ryght hande shall from every where
Thee seeke, and bryng to syght.

AM. wher goest thow wretch? what lurkyng
seekste thou to take, or flyght?

No place of savegarde ys yf once
bee Hercles styrde with yre:

But doo thou rather hym enbrace,
and with thy meeke desyre

Assaye t’ asswage hym. MEG. Husbande spare
us I beseeche thee nowe,

And knowe thy Megara, this sonne
thy cowntenaunce doothe showe,

And bodyes pytche: beholdst thow howe
his hands up lyfteth hee?

HER. I holde my stepdame: followe on
dewe penawnce paye to mee,

And bownden Jove from fylthy bonde
delyver free awaye:

But I before the mother wyll
this lyttell monster slaye.

MEG. Thou mad man whither goest thow?
wylte thou thyne owne bloode sheade?

AM. Th’infant with fathers fyry face
astonnyde all for dreade,

Dyed even before the wownde: his feare
hath tooke away his lyfe.

And nowe lykewyse his heavy clubbe
is shaken towarde his wyfe:

He broaken hath the bones, her head
from blocklyke bodye gone

Is quight, nor any where it stayes.
darste thow this looke uppone

To long lyude age? yf mournyng doo
thee greue, thou hast then loe

The deathe preparde. Doo thou thy breast
uppon his weapons throe,

Or ells this clubbe with slaughter staynde
of monsters slayne that bee,

Nowe hyther turne. thy parent false,
unfytte for name of thee

Ryd hens away, least he shoulde be
to thy renowne a let.

THE. Which waie ye father toward thy death
dooste thow thy selfe caste yet?

Or whyther goest thou madde man? flee,
and lye thow cloasely hyd,

And yet from handes of Hercules
this onely myschiefe ryd.

HER. Tis well, the howse of shameful kyng
ys nowe quyght overthrowne.

To thee O spowse of greattest Jove
I have loe beaten downe

This offred flocke: I gladly have
fulfyllde my wyshes all

Full meete for thee, and Argos nowe
geeve other offryngs shall.

AM. Thow hast not sonne yet al performde,
fyll up the sacrifyse.

Loe th’offryng doothe at th’aultars stande,
it waytes thy hande lykewyse

With necke full prone: I gyve my selfe,
I roon, I followe loe.

Mee sacrifyce. what meaneth this?
his eyes rolle to and froe,

And heavynesse doothe dull his syght.
see I of Hercules

The tremblyng hands? down falles his lace
to sleepe and quietnes,

And weery necke with bowed head
full faste doothe downewarde shrynke,

With bended knee: nowe all at once
he downe to grownde doothe synke,

As in the woodes wylde asshe cut downe,
or bulwarke for to make

A haven in seas. Lyuste thow? or els
to deathe doothe thee betake

The selfe same rage, that hath sent all
thy famylye to deathe?