Then nature doth their brittle state sustaine,
The prince and swaine to death are both alike,
No ods are found when he with dart doth strike.
460.
For I, that whilome sung with cheerefull breath
Her roiall reigne, whose like no age hath seene,
Now cannot sing; but weepe to thinke how death,
All pitilesse of what before had beene,
Did rob poore England of so rich a queene;
And if I sing, I must in my sad song,