By thousands sent vnto the gaping graue,
On whom no mercie pestilence would haue:
Yea then (thou glorie of great Albion)
Thy sad distresse I gan to thinke vpon,
Thy mournefull widowes groueling in sad swound
On their dead husbands, on the ashie ground,
Thy husbands striuing to preserue the breath
Of their deare spouse from vnrelenting death;
Thy orphans left poore, parentlesse, alone
The future time’s sad miserie to mone: