Xlviii

But since faire Sunne hath sperst that lowring clowd, And to my loathed life now shewes some light, Under your beames I will me safely shrowd, From dreaded storme of his disdainfull spight: To you th' inheritance belongs by right Of brothers prayse, to you eke longs his love. Let not his love, let not his restlesse spright, Be unreveng'd, that calles to you above From wandring Stygian shores, where it doth endlesse move.