As partner of her woes, his part did plie,
For that the gifts, with which Autumnus hand
Had grac’d the earth, by winter’s wrath should die,
From whose cold cheekes bleake blasts began to flie
Which made me think vpon my summer past
And winter’s woes, which all my life should last.
98.
My keeper with compassion mou’d to see,
How griefe’s impulsions in my brest did beate,
Thus silence broke: “Would God, my lord,” quoth he,