Xxi

The messenger of so unhappie newes, Would faine have dyde: dead was his hart within, Yet outwardly some little comfort shewes: At last recovering hart, he does begin To rub her temples, and to chaufe her chin, And everie tender part does tosse and turne. So hardly° he the flitted life does win, Unto her native prison to retourne: Then gins her grieved ghost thus to lament and mourne.