Why did not fates preuent my bloodie foes,
And with keene knife in death cut of my woes?
43.
My woes, alas, as yet were to begin:
For though my foes were priuie to my cries,
Yet could my rufull plaints no pitie winne,
To take from me at length they did deuise,
The last of all my comforts, both mine eyes:
Ah cruell foes, too cruell were ye bent,
Why could my death to you not yeeld content?