Now let me see what store of gold thou haste,
But staie, me thinkes this is no famous face:
Oh no it is my sonne that I haue slaine in fight,
O monstrous times begetting such euents,
[30] How cruel bloudy, and ironious,
This deadlie quarrell dailie doth beget,
[♦] Poore boy thy father gaue thee lif too late,
And hath bereau’de thee of thy life too sone.
King Wo aboue wo, griefe more then common griefe,
35 Whilst Lyons warre and battaile for their dens,