Ne with that slaughter yet is he not fild: Fowl shame on shame to heape, is his delite. Wherefore the handes also doth hee of smyte, Which durst Antonius life so liuely paynt. (75) Him, yeldyng strayned goste, from welkin hye. With lothy chere, lord Phebus gan behold: And in black clowd, they say, long hid his hed. The latine Muses, and the Grayes, they wept: And, for his fall, eternally shall weep. (80) And lo, hertpersing Pitho + (straunge to tell) Who had to him suffisde both sense, and words, When so he spake: and drest, with nectar soote, That flowyng toung: when his windpipe disclosde, Fled with her fleeyng frend: and (out alas) (85) Hath left the earth, ne will no more return. Popilius flyeth, therwhile: and, leauing there The senslesse stock, a grizely sight doth bear Unto Antonius boord, with mischief fed.