By my deare friends, who did in vaine pretend
To saue my life, loe, as I there did lie
In th’armes of death, perceiuing how each friend
Did shew his ruth, in teares for my sad end,
These words I spake, before my vading breath
Did flie away vpon the wings of death.
110.
“Grieue not,” said I, “to see your wounded king
Wrapt in the ruine of his life now done:
For Phœnix-like from death new life shall spring,