Along her lonely cheekes: with roses stained:
Which as they wither still (for want of raine)
Those siluer showers water them againe.
Now had the poore-mans clock (shrill chauntcleare)
Twice giuen notice of the Mornes approach,
(That then began in glorie to appeare,
Drawne in her stately colour'd saffron-Coach)
When shee (poore Lady) almost turn'd to teares,
Began to teare and rend her golden haires.
Lie there (quoth shee) the workers of my woes