How were thy sonnes from their sad mother driuen?
Thy daughter’s beautie vnto rapine giuen?
My words, alas, will thy sad heart compell
To bleed with woe, these woes to heare me tell.
9.
The simple hinde, who with day-labour stroue
In fruitlesse field to furrow vp his bread,
Nor for himselfe the earth with paine did proue,
But for another, whom his labour fed,
Although in heart he often wisht him dead,