SONNET.
THis Queen, whose noble wrath admits no rest,
(With poison at her Lips, Death neer her Breast)
Do's the now trembling Synnorix upbraid
With that sad stroke his murd'rous Hand convey'd.
Her Husbands Ghost, which often call'd in vain,
(With Langnor pale, yet bloody as when slain)
Waits to receive her in that Cloud the late
Extinguish'd Torches with their smoak create.
Brave Soul forsake not thy fair Prison; stay,
Do not, Renowned Camma, post away
To thy Sinnatus, ere the poisnous Draught
Have on his Murd'rers Head due Vengeance wrought
To which the Heav'ns and all things else conspire
With his sad Fate, and thy inflamed Ire:
And Love himself i•• accelerate his pain,
Megrra's Torch, and Deaths cold Shafts hath ta'ne.