I put the teares of my contrition,
Till to the brim I haue it full defrayd:
And in this bag which I behinde me don,
I put repentaunce for things past and gon.
Yet is the bottle leake, and bag so torne,
That all which I put in, fals out anon;
And is behinde me trodden downe of Scorne,
Who mocketh all my paine, and laughs the more I mourn.
The Infant hearkned wisely to her tale, xxv
And wondred much at Cupids iudg’ment wise,