Meek saint, who never once revil’d his foes,
His bloody foes that him to scaffold bring;
One of a maid; O heaven! that I could sing
With Spenser’s tongue, her spotless purity,
Her holy zeal, in courts so rare a thing,
By lawless fiends condemn’d she was to die,
And sent, untimely sent, to seek her native sky.
V.
The third I marked with melancholy eyes,
A female head, that once a crown did wear,