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the shrill trumpet and sterne tragick sounds Objects out-ragious and so full of feare: Our pen late steep'd in English Barons wounds, Sent war-like accents to your tune-full eare. Our active Muse to gentler morals dight; Her slight conceites in humbled tunes doth sing; And with the bird (regardlesse of the light) Slowely doth move her late high-mounting wing. The wreathe is Iuye that ingirts our browes, Where-in this night's-bird harboreth all the day;