Aquilon

Auster and Aquilon with winged Steeds All ſweating, tilt about the watery heauens, With ſhiuering ſpeares enforcing thunderclaps, And from their ſhields ſtrike flames of lightening

Thou, trumpet, there’s my purſe; / Now cracke thy lungs, and ſplit thy braſen pipe: / Blow, villaine, till thy ſphered Bias cheeke / Out-ſwell the collicke of puft Aquilon: / Come, ſtretch thy cheſt, and let thy eyes ſpout bloud: / Thou bloweſt for Hector.