And through his soule like poysned arrow perst,
That by no reason it might be reuerst,
For ought that Glauce could or doe or say.
For aye the more that she the same reherst,
The more it gauld, and grieu’d him night and day,
That nought but dire reuenge his anger mote defray.
So as they trauelled, the drouping night xxxii
Couered with cloudie storme and bitter showre,
That dreadfull seem’d to euery liuing wight,
Vpon them fell, before her timely howre;