Heau’n beares the chiefest stroke in our intents.
81.
Thy muse must now put on a mourning weed,
Death doth begin to shew his ghastly face,
With sad teares mourner-like let her proceed,
To Chalus Cheuerell that fatall place,
Where death with his cold armes did me embrace:
There let her stand, and on that towne’s strong wall
Behold the manner of my haplesse fall.
82.