Doth dwell, whence banished is the gladsome air
They seek; and there in mourning spend their time
With wailful tunes; whiles wolves do howl and bark,
And seem to bear a bourdon to their plaint.
Lycon. Phillisides is dead! O doleful rhyme!
Why should my tongue express thee? Who is left
Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint;
Lycon unfortunate? What spiteful fate?
What luckless destiny hath thee bereft
Of thy chief comfort, of thy only stay?