49.
Thenceforth, as caytife cast in dungeon deepe,
Where with fresh griefe my hart did hourely bleed,
As Philomel that spends her time of sleepe
In mournefull tunes recording his misdeed,
Whose lust in wastefull woods her shame did breede,
Night’s endlesse houres till death did end the same,
Against my foes I wasted in exclame.
50.
Famine, the childe of want did feast my soule,