With hollowe eyes, full oft he frowned sad,
And bent his browes, and lookte as he were mad:
I sawe not in my life, I thinke his pere:
Nor shall not, if I liue this hundred yeare.
At length he tryde, which way to tell his mynde:
Yet how to speake his tonge had quite forgotte:
Each instrument forgotten had his kinde,
That erste could run at randon and by roate,
But then me thought, with fist his brest hee smote,
The other hande his musing browes did holde: