O would to God, the[1642] cruell dismall day, That gaue mee light fyrst to behold thy face, With foule eclipse had reft my sight away: Th’vnhappy[1643] hower, the tyme, and eke the place,[1644] The sunne and moone, the stars, and all that was In theire aspects helping in ought to thee, The earth and ayre, and all, accursed bee. 94. And thou caytyfe, that like a monster swarued From kinde and kindnes, hast thy maister lorne, Whom neyther trueth, nor trust wherein thou serued, Ne his deserts could moue, nor thy fayth sworne, How shall I curse, but wish that thou vnborne Had beene, or that the earth had rent in tway, And swallowed thee in cradle as thou laye. 95. To this did I, euen from thy tender youth, Witsaue[1645] to bring thee vp? did I herefore Beleue the oth of thy vndoubted troth? Aduaunce thee vp, and trust thee euermore? By trusting thee that I should dye therefore? O wretch, and worse then wretch, what shall I say? But clepe and curse gaynst thee and thine for aye. 96. Hated be thou, disdaynde of euery wight, And poynted at where euer that thou goe: A trayterous wretch, vnworthy of the light Bee thou esteemde; and to encrease thy woe, The sounde be hatefull of thy name also: And in this sort with shame and sharp reproche, Lead thou thy life, tyll greater griefe approche. 97. Dole and despayre, let those be thy delight, Wrapped in woes that cannot bee vnfolde, To wayle the day, and weepe the weary night, With rayny eyne and sighes cannot be tolde, And let no wight thy woe seeke to withholde: But count thee worthy (wretch) of sorrowe’s store, That suffering much, oughtst still to suffer more. 98. Deserue thou death, yea bee thou deemde to dye A shamefull death, to end thy shamefull life: A sight longed for, ioyfull to euery eye, When thou shalt bee arraigned as a theefe, Standing at bar, and pleading for thy life, With trembling tongue in dread and dolour’s rage, Lade with white lockes, and fourscore yeares of age. 99. Yet shall not death deliuer thee so soone Out of thy woes, so happy shalt not[1646] bee: But to th’eternall[1647] Ioue this is my boone, That thou mayst[1648] liue thine eldest sonne to see Reft of his wits, and in a foule bore’s stye To end his dayes, in rage and death distrest, A worthy tombe where one of thine should rest. 100.