Then makes a pile: which, when with Sonne it burnes,
Shee flies therein, and so to ashes turnes.
Whereof, behoulde, an other Phœnix rare,
With speede dothe rise most beautifull and faire:
And thoughe for truthe, this manie doe declare,
Yet thereunto, I meane not for to sweare:
Althoughe I knowe that Aucthors witnes true,
What here I write, bothe of the oulde, and newe.
Which when I wayed, the newe, and eke the oulde,
I thought vppon your towne destroyed with fire: