And in my brest her hungrie arrow steepe,
The black night’s shreeking bird, the ghastlie oule
With balefull notes in waking woe did keepe
My greeued soule, when nature craued sleepe,
With whose shrill shreekes my plaints did beare a part,
And kept true time with sighes from sorrowing hart.
51.
Sorrow and griefe with waste of teares drawne drie,
Suppli’d the place where eyes did once remaine,
Whose want of teares my hart did still supplie