Wringing his hands, and fortune oft doth blame,
Which of a duke hath made him now her skorne:
With gastly lookes, as one in maner lorne,
Oft spred his armes, stretcht hands hee ioynes as fast,
With rufull cheare, and vapored eyes vpcast.
78.
His cloake hee rent, his manly brest hee beat,
His hayre all torne, about the place it lay,[1571]
My heart so molt to see his griefe so great,
As felingly me thought, it dropt away: