258In blacke morne I, all feares scorne I,

259Loue hath forlorne me, liuing in thrall:

260Hart is bleeding, all helpe needing,

261O cruell speeding, fraughted with gall.

262My shepheards pipe can sound no deale,

263My weathers bell rings dolefull knell,

264My curtaile dogge that wont to haue plaid,

265Plaies not at all but seemes afraid.

266 With sighes so deepe, procures to weepe,

267 In howling wise, to see my dolefull plight,

268 How sighes resound through hartles ground

269 Like a thousand vanquisht men in blodie fight.