¶ A Dialogue-Antheme.
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 killd 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.
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