XLIX
In which amazement, when the Miscreant
Perceived him to waver weake and fraile,
Whiles trembling horror did his conscience dant,
And hellish anguish did his soule assaile,
To drive him to despaire, and quite to quaile,
He shew'd him painted in a table[°] plaine,
The damned ghosts, that doe in torments waile,
And thousand feends that doe them endlesse paine