Vpon my bodie stands an icie dew:
My heart is dead within, and with affright
The haire vpon my head doth stand vpright:
Each limbe about me quaking, doth resemble
A riuer’s rush, that with the wind doth tremble.
73.
Thus with my guiltie soule’s sad torture torne,
The darke night’s dismall houres I past away,
But at cocke’s crow the message of the morne,
My feare I did conceale, lest men should say