But thou, rich in all joyes, dost rob my goods from mee,
Which cannot be restorde by time nor industrie:
Of foes the spoyle is evill, farre more of constant lovers.
9 Yet gentle English thieves doo rob, and will not slay;
Thou English murdring thiefe, wilt have hearts for thy pray.
The name of murdrer now on thy faire forhead sitteth,
And even while I do speake my death wounds bleeding bee,
Which I protest proceed from onely cruell thee.
Who may and will not save, murther in trueth committeth.
10 But murthers private fault seemes but a toy to thee.