Thou fatall building stain’d with noble blood,
Thou den where horror and darke treason lies,
Say if thou wast, since thy foundation stood,
More mou’d to pitie humaine miseries,
Hearing the echo of sad sorrowe’s cries:
Then when yong Yorke with pitious plaints and mones
Powr’d forth his sorrowes to thy senselesse stones.
57.
Euen as sometimes we see a silly lambe,
Which for the slaughter in some fold is pent,