With smoke of sighs sometyme I might beholde, The place all dimde, like to the morning mist: And strait agayne the teares how they downrold Alongst his cheekes, as if the riuers hyst: Whose flowing streames ne where no soner whist, But to the stars such dreadfull shouts hee sent, As if the throne of mighty Ioue should rent. 87. And I the while with sprits[1638] welny bereft, Beheld the plight and pangs that did him strayne, And how the bloud his deadly colour left, And straight retournde with flaming red againe: When sodaynly amid his raging payne Hee gaue a sigh, and with that sigh hee sayed: “Oh _Banastaire_:” and strait agayne hee stayed. 88. Dead lay his corps, as dead as any stone, Till swelling sighes storming within his brest, Upraysde his head, that downeward fell anone, With lookes vpcast, and sighes that neuer ceast: Forth stremde the teares records of his vnrest, When hee with shrikes thus groveling on the ground, Ybrayed these words with shrill and dolefull sounde. 89. “Heauen and earth, and ye eternall lamps That, in the heauens wrapt, wyll vs to rest, Thou bright _Phœbe_, that clearest the night’s damps, Witnes the playnts that in these pangs opprest, I, wofull wretch, vnlade out of my brest, And let mee yeelde my last words, ere I parte, You, you, I call to record of my smarte. 90. And thou, _Alecto_, feede mee with thy foode, Let fall thy serpents from thy snaky heare, For such releife well fits mee in this moode, To feede my playnt with horrour and with feare, While rage afresh thy venomde worme areare: And thou _Sibilla_, when thou seest mee faynte, Addresse thy selfe the guide of my complaynt. 91. And thou, O Ioue, that with the[1639] deepe fordoome Dost rule the earth, and raygne aboue the skies, That wreakest wrongs, and geu’st[1640] the dreadfull doome Agaynst the wretch that doth thy name despise,[1641] Receiue these words, and wreake them in such wise, As heauen and earth may wytnesse and beholde, Thy heapes of wrath vpon this wretch vnfolde. 92. Thou _Banastaire_, gainst thee I clepe and call Unto the gods, that they iust vengeaunce take On thee, thy bloud, thy stayned stocke and all: O Ioue, to thee aboue the rest I make My humble playnt, guide mee, that what I speake, May be thy will vpon this wretch to fall, On thee, _Banastaire_, wretch of wretches all. 93.