For woe, alas, this land can testifie
The rauenous rage of Mars his tyrannie.
60.
Pitie the teares of this our mother Ile,
Whose fame which 'bout the world once shone as bright
As Phœbus shine, now dim’d, alas, the while,
With clouds of carefull strife hath lost her light,
That to behold her in this wretched plight,
Like sorowe’s image drown’d in waues of woe,
Would make the hardest flint with teares to flow.