Then all the griefe that I endur’d before:
And forc’d me search the walles for open place,
To some without to waile my woefull case.
140.
Vpon a time I through a crannie spi’d
Men hewing timber on the greene fast by,
To whom with drearie deadly voice I cri’d,
“O who will helpe me wretch, that heere do lie
In torment worse then death, yet cannot die?
If any there do mourne man’s wretched case,