Above the waste a darke cloude shrouded her,
A stinging serpent by the heele her caught;
Wherewith she languish’d as the gathered flowre;
And, well assured, she mounted up to ioy.
Alas, on earth no nothing doth endure
But bitter griefe and sorrowful annoy;
Which make this life wretched and miserable,
Tossed with stormes of fortune variable.
VII.
When I beheld this tickle trustles state