Nought easeth the care that doth me forhaile;
What shall I do? what way shall I wend,
My piteous plight and loss to amend?
Ah! good Hobbinol, might I thee pray
Of aid or counsel in my decay?
HOB. Now by my soul, Diggon, I lament
The hapless mischief that has thee hent;
Natheless thou seest my lowly sail,
That froward Fortune doth ever availe:
But, were Hobbinol as God might please,