With drops of blood, fresh bleeding with the paine
Of wounding griefe which it did long sustaine,
Of which impatient to despaire being driuen,
Cursing my birth, I thus did crie to heauen.
52.
Woe worth the wombe, which nature did inforce
To bring me forth and leaue me in neglect:
Woe worth the starre, that did direct my course,
If anie starre the course of life direct:
Woe worth the houre, which did my birth detect: