Xx

Him booteth not resist,° nor succour call, His bleeding hart is in the vengers hand, Who streight him rent in thousand peeces small, And quite dismembred hath: the thirsty land Drunke up his life; his corse left on the strand. His fearefull friends weare out the wofull night, Ne dare to weepe, nor seeme to understand The heavie hap, which on them is alight, Affraid, least to themselves the like mishappen might.