Vi

The pitteous maiden carefull comfortlesse, Does throw out thrilling shriekes, and shrieking cryes, The last vaine helpe of womens great distresse, And with loud plaints importuneth the skyes, That molten starres do drop like weeping eyes; And Phoebus flying so most shameful sight, His blushing face in foggy cloud implyes, And hides for shame. What wit of mortall wight Can now devise to quit a thrall from such a plight?