Chr. ALas, poore Death, where is thy glorie?
        Where is thy famous force, the ancient sting?
Dea.  Alas poore mortall, void of storie,
        Go spell and reade how I have kill’d thy King.
Chr.  Poore Death!  and who was hurt thereby?
         Thy curse being laid on him, makes thee accurst.
Dea.  Let losers talk: yet thou shalt die;
         These arms shall crush thee.  Chr. Spare not, do thy worst.
            I shall be one day better then before:
            Thou so much worse, that thou shalt be no more.