And thus I prophesie of thee.
That manie a Widdow for her husbands death,
30 And many an infants water standing eie,
Widowes for their husbandes, children for their fathers,
Shall curse the time that euer thou wert borne.
The owle shrikt at thy birth, an euill signe,
[♦] The night Crow cride, aboding lucklesse tune,
[35] Dogs howld and hideous tempests shooke down trees,
The Rauen rookt her on the Chimnies top,
And chattering Pies in dismall discord sung,