61.
Her fertile wombe, which goodly fruit did beare,
Now barren made, war’s stormie breath hath blasted,
Her buds of gaysome youth, which whilome were
The flowers of chiualrie, haue headlong hasted
Their timelesse end, while she in woe hath wasted,
And we the cause, we wretches, that delight
By wicked warre to worke her more despight.
62.
O noble princes, let not warre’s blacke hand