And oft the owle with rufull song complaind
From the howse topp, to drawe his plaining tunes.
And manie thinges, forspoke by prophetes past,
Of dreddfull warninges gan her now afraye,
And sterne Aeneas semed in her slepe
To chase her still abowt, bestraught in rage.
And still her thowght that she was left alone
Unwaited on great voiages to wende,
In desert land her Tyrian folke to seke.
Like Pentheus, that in his maddnes sawe
Swarminge in flockes the furies all of hell,
Two souns remove, and Thebes towne showde twaine . . .