Xv

The day is spent, and commeth drowsie night, When every creature shrowded is in sleepe; Sad Una downe her laies in wearie plight, And at her feete the Lyon watch doth keepe: In stead of rest, she does lament, and weepe For the late losse of her deare loved knight, And sighes, and grones, and ever more does steepe Her tender brest in bitter teares all night, All night she thinks too long, and often lookes for light.