And oft in sighfull groanes your griefe do show)
Haste vnto vs, and hauing heard our wrong,
Help with your shrieks to make a mourneful song.
5.
The quill of some sad turtle’s wing applie
That mourn’d so long, till griefe did strike her dead:
Blood be thy incke, which when it waxeth drie,
Moisten with teares: and when all thine are shed,
From euery eye, that haps these lines to reade,
Let euery verse compos’d, such sad sound beare,