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.