Each day, and each night,
To work him despight,
That, wearied with sorrows, he still might lament.
Poor king, thus abused, he was at the last
To Pomfret in Yorkshire convey'd,
And there in a dungeon, full low in the ground,
Unpitied, he nightly was laid:
Not one for his misery grieved,
That late was in place
Of royallest grace,