To Herod, Murtherer of the Innocents

Fie brutish Tyrant, sheath thy blade,
So drunke with former slaughters made,
That now it doth at rand on fall
On the most harmelesse things of all.
The Son of Heaven's without thy spheare,
And thou but idlely beat'st the aire
With threats: but mothers groanes and cryes,
That vapour to the vengefull skies,
From swollen Clouds, shall head-long downe
With Lightning burst, and blast thy Crowne.