And thus much for our iourney to Cadiz: for the accidents that happened by the way, for the winning, spoiling, and burning of the saide towne, for the ouerthrowe of the Spanish Fleet there, and for al other by-matters that happened, as appendances to the same, both in the time of our abode there, as also at the very last houre of our comming from thence.
As for our returne home, and our entrance into a part of Portingal by the way, with the taking, spoyling, and burning of the towne of Faraon there, and marching into the Spanish confines therabouts, &c. I minde to leaue it to some other, whose chance was to be present at the action, as myselfe was not, and shalbe of more sufficient ability to performe it.
The Most Honourable Tragedie of Sir Richard Grinuile, Knight. 1595. [Footnote: At London, printed by I. Roberts, for Richard Smith, 1595. (Written by Gervase Markham--KTH).]
That time of yeare when the inamored Sunne Clad in the richest roabes of liuing fiers, Courted the Virgin signe, great Nature Nunne, Which barrains earth of al what earth desires Euen in the month that from _Augustus_ wonne, His sacred name which vnto heauen aspires, And on the last of his ten trebled days, When wearie labour new refresh assayes.
Then when the earth out-brau'd the beautious Morne, Boasting his cornie Mantle stird with aire, Which like a golden Ocean did adorne, His cold drie carcasse, featurelesse, vnfaire, Holding the naked shearers scithe in scorne, Or ought that might his borrowed pride empaire, The soule of vertue seeing earth so ritch, With his deare presence gilds the sea as mitch.
The sea, which then was heauie, sad, and still, Dull, vnapplyed to sportiue wantonnesse, As if her first-borne _Venus_ had beene ill, Or _Neptune_ seene the _Sonne_ his loue possesse, Or greater cares, that greatest comforts kill, Had crowned with griefe, the worlds wet wildernesse, Such was the still-foot _Thetis_ silent paine, Whose flowing teares, ebbing fell backe againe.
_Thetis_, the mother of the pleasant springs, Grandam of all the Riuers in the world, To whom earths veins their moistning tribut brings, Now with a mad disturbed passion hurld, About her caue (the worlds great treasure) flings: And with wreath'd armes, and long wet hairs uncurld, Within her selfe laments a losse vnlost, And mones her wrongs, before her ioyes be crost