I tel you true my hart is ſwolne with wrath, On this ſame theeuish villain Tamburlain. And of that false Coſroe, my traiterous brother, Would it not grieue a King to be so abuſ’d?

And when their ſcattered armie is ſubdu’d: And you march on their ſlaughtered carkaſſes, Share equally the gold that bought their liues, And liue like Gentlmen in Perſea, […]

This car tends to drift left at high speeds.

Perchance, my Fancy would have bin so kinde, / T‘ unsolve the doubts of my perplexed minde.