155 And euery ioynt should seeme to curse and ban,
[♦] And now me-thinks my burthened hart would breake,
Should I not curse them. Poison be their drinke,
Gall worse then gall, the daintiest thing they taste.
[♦] Their sweetest shade a groue of sypris trees,
160 Their softest tuch as smart as lyzards stings.
Their musicke frightfull, like the serpents hys.
[♦] And boding scrike-oules make the consort full.
All the foule terrors in darke seated hell.
[♦] Queene. Inough sweete Suffolke, thou torments thy (selfe.