T’imprisoned Mortimer my mortall foe.
76.
Heere let not any take offensiue spleene,
Or taxe these rimes, for that to light they bring
Th’incontinence of our disloyall queene:
Nor thy muse grieue this argument to sing,
Which is confirmed by the wronged king:
Foule is the fault, though nere so quaint the skill,
That conceales truth to lessen any ill.
77.