Yet fortune hath not spent her vtmost hate, With patience we must arme our selues more strong, Scarce will fraile eares belieue what we relate, When now thy muse shall tune her mournefull song, To sadder times that she may waile that wrong, To which with griefe for guide we now proceed, Whose woes wil make the hardiest heart to bleed. 126. Our iealous queen, whom conscience doth torment, Fearing lest _Leicester_ so neare alli’d, In pitie of our state should now relent, Tels _Torleton_ of her doubts what might betide, If in his keeping we do still abide, Who fearing vengeance for his owne offence, Giues her his counsell to remoue me thence. 127. _Leister_ constrained by expresse command, To the lord _Berkley_ doth his charge restore, Whence he conueies me with an armed band Vnto his castle seated neare the shore, Gainst which great Seuerne’s raging waues do rore: But _Berkley_, thou with _Leister_ art too kind, _Edward_ with thee doth too much fauour find. 128. Oh gentle _Berkly_, whither wilt thou go? Why dost not stand by thy sad sou’raigne’s side? For pitie leaue him not vnto such woe, Which _Gourney_ and _Matreuers_ do prouide, Such woe did neuer any king betide: But with command they come, thou must depart, And leaue thy king, although with heauie heart. 129. To _Gourney_ and _Matreuers_ by decree In his owne castle he resignes his right: Who lest that any friend should priuie bee To my abode, do beare me thence by night Vnto Corfe castle, whence with more despight Through darknesse and blind waies in poore array, To Bristow castle they do me conuey. 130. By night conuey’d thus rudely to and fro, Lest by my friends from them I rescu’d bee, At last since none, whom they do feare, do know Where I am now become, they do agree To Berkley backe againe to go with mee, Staying a time, till night with dewie dampe Should choake daie’s light and put out Phœbus lampe. 131. Then do they set me on a beast foreworne In stead of stately steed, whereon to ride, And for no crowne I had my head t’adorne, Bare I do sit, except the heau’n to hide My woefull head all couering they denide, While sharp winds in my face the weather blowes, And with their nipping cold augments my woes. 132.