Xxxviii

Therewith an hollow, dreary, murmuring voyce These pitteous plaints and dolours did resound; O who is that, which brings me happy choyce Of death, that here lye dying every stound, Yet live perforce in balefull darkenesse bound? For now three Moones have changed thrice their hew, And have been thrice hid underneath the ground, Since I the heavens chearfull face did vew, O welcome thou, that doest of death bring tydings trew.