Xxiii

And him before, I saw with bitter eyes The bold Sansfoy shrinke underneath his speare; And now the pray of fowles in field he lyes, Nor wayld of friends, nor layd on groning beare,° That whylome was to me too dearely deare. O what of Gods° then boots it to be borne, If old Aveugles sonnes so evill heare? Or who shall not great Nightes children scorne, When two of three her Nephews are so fowle forlorne?