But by no meanes I could him win thereto,
Ne longer him intreate with me to staie,
But without taking leave he foorth did goe
With staggring pace and dismall looks dismay,
As if that Death he in the face had seene, 565
Or hellish hags had met upon the way:
But what of him became I cannot weene.
AMORETTI
AND
EPITHALAMION.
WRITTEN NOT LONG SINCE BY
EDMUNDE SPENSER.
PRINTED FOR WILLIAM POSBONBY.
1595.