Darkned with woe hir only studie is
To wepe, to sigh, to seke for lonelines.
Careles of all, hir haire disordred hangs:
Hir charming eies whence murthring looks did flie,
Now riuers grown’, whose wellspring anguish is,
Do trickling wash the marble of hir face.
Hir faire discouer’d brest with sobbing swolne
Selfe cruell she still martireth with blowes,
Alas! It’s our ill happ, for if hir teares
She would conuert into hir louing charmes,