Witnes the playnts that in these pangs opprest,
I, wofull wretch, vnlade out of my brest,
And let mee yeelde my last words, ere I parte,
You, you, I call to record of my smarte.
90.
And thou, Alecto, feede mee with thy foode,
Let fall thy serpents from thy snaky heare,
For such releife well fits mee in this moode,
To feede my playnt with horrour and with feare,
While rage afresh thy venomde worme areare: