That yet my heart burns in exceeding paine,
For ruth and pitie of so haples plight;
O! let mine eyes no more see such a sight.
VI.
At last so faire a ladie did I spie,
That thinking yet on her I burn and quake;
On hearts and flowres she walked pensively
Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake;
White seem’d her robes, yet woven so they were
As snow and golde together had beene wrought;