From jigging veins of rhyming mother wits |
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And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay, |
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We’ll lead you to the stately tent of war, |
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Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine |
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Threat’ning the world with high astounding terms | 5 |
And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword. |
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View but his picture in this tragic glass, |
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And then applaud his fortunes as you please. |