O noble Edward, from whose royall blood
Life to these infant bodies nature drew,
Thy roses both are cropt euen in the bud:
Why didst thou leaue that bore in time t’ensue,
To spoile those plants that in thy garden grew?
Of all that haruest which thy hand did sow,
Nought haue we reaped but a crop of woe.
47.
Who now amongst thy peeres of note or name,
The sad mishap of thy deare sonnes doth mone?