And there it doth remaine the piteous spectacle
That ere mine eies beheld.
45 Edw. Sweet Duke of Yorke our prop to leane vpon,
Now thou art gone there is no hope for vs:
Now my soules pallace is become a prison.
Oh would she breake from compasse of my breast,
For neuer shall I haue more ioie.
50 Rich. I cannot weepe, for all my breasts moisture
[♦] Scarse serues to quench my furnace burning hart:
I cannot ioie till this white rose be dide,