O impious age, when truth was counted treason,
Heere noble Arundell I waile thy fate,
Whose blood drunke vp by Mortimer’s sterne hate,
Did manifest the spleene, on which he fed
Against his king, for whom thy blood was shed.
114.
Since they by death t’offence haue paid their due,
Who late alone in your displeasure stood,
Whom should your deadly hatred now pursue?
If they were only foes to common good,