Yet nought can quench mine inly flaming syde,
Nor sea of licour cold, nor lake of mire,
Nothing but death can doe me to respire.
Ah be it (said he) from Pyrochles farre
After pursewing death once to require,
Or think, that ought those puissant hands may marre:
Death is for wretches borne vnder vnhappie starre.
Perdie, then is it[645] fit for me (said he) xlv
That am, I weene, most wretched man aliue,
Burning[646] in flames, yet no flames can I see,