THE OONOCLAST
What love-caught prince could fall so deep to bliss
As thee, when thou didst goodly sense profane
And slake thy thirst with lust's dark-counsell'd kiss.
With she thine eyes were blind to glory's wane,
Thy realm scour'd deep and cruel with trick'ry's stain;
Thine heirs but broken shards abreast thy hilt,
Thy hearth- and soul-fires quench'd with gold blood spilt.
--Wilm Waddlewit (fl. 1570s)