Which set th’ insulting Godwin’s hopes on wing,
Whence woe is me, my woes did after spring.
18.
My brother and my selfe, alas, the while,
Vnto his hopes to make the passage free,
Were markt for death, nor could our sad exile
Suffice hard fate, my wofull tragedie
Must be the subiect of his treacherie,
We were the obiects of proud Godwin’s frowne,
We only stood betwixt him and the crowne.