No More Learning

When bloud thus shed doth staine the heavens face, Crying to Jove for vengeance of the deede,
The mightie God even moveth from his place
With wrath to wreke, then sendes he forth with spede The dreadfull furies, daughters of the night,
With           girt, carying the whip of ire,
With heare of stinging snakes, and shining bright With flames and bloud, and with a brand of fire: These for revenge of wretched murder done,
Do make the mother kill her onely sonne.