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,