Thursday.
That day shee di’d, which to her roiall sire,
To great Plantagenet hath fatall been;
That day, when fates did his sad death conspire:
That day when his young Edward dead was seene,
That day when Mary left to be a queene:
That day from vs did our Eliza goe,
That day, that tyrant death did worke our woe.
463.
But why do we ’gainst death vse such complaint,