Helpe me, ah help me from this loathed place.”
141.
The poore men’s hearts are pierc’d with point of woe,
And trembling horror doth their hearts appall
For ruth of wronged king cast downe so low,
Vnable t’helpe me, vnto God they call,
That he may yeeld reliefe to wofull thrall:
Who giuing eare to mine and their request,
At length in death doth giue my sorrowes rest.
142.