And while with hunger nature slowly weares,
My food was sighes, my drinke griefe’s mournfull teares,
Famine at length did blow the banefull breath,
Whose bitter blast did strike my soule with death.
124.
Euen as the naked woods, whose greene is lost,
Clad in hoare, their ruth do seeme to show,
In teares turn’d t’ysicles by wintrie frost:
So I my head made white with age and woe,
While from th’eyes organs teares downe drizeling flow,