That to our Prince wee may the traytour bring.
12.
So with my boats beset, poore Humber I
Wist no refuge, my weery armes did ake,
My breath was short, I had no powre to crye,
Or place to stande, whyle I my playnte might make.
The water colde made all my ioynts to shake,
My heart did beate with sorowe, griefe, and payne,
And downe my cheeks salt teares they gusht amayne.
13.