When as our vncle had obtain’d his will,
The crowne scarce warme on his vsurping head,
Opprest with care to keepe that gotten ill,
He takes no rest of mind in bowre nor bed,
Suspition with the guilt of conscience fed
Breeds doubts, distractions, horrors in his brest,
Which like to hags do haunt him with vnrest.
52.
Each step he treads, by which he climbes his throne,
Is grounded on the death of some great peere: