But why seeke I, O England, to reclaime thee, By sounding former euils in thine eare? That’s yet vntold, the which alone shall shame thee, As oft of it as any age shall heare, Tyrants, in whom no pitie doth appeare, Shall thee vpbraid, and blushing at thy shame, For past compare shall register the same. 51. When as our vncle had obtain’d his will, The crowne scarce warme on his vsurping head, Opprest with care to keepe that gotten ill, He takes no rest of mind in bowre nor bed, Suspition with the guilt of conscience fed Breeds doubts, distractions, horrors in his brest, Which like to hags do haunt him with vnrest. 52. Each step he treads, by which he climbes his throne, Is grounded on the death of some great peere: As he ascends, he sees their blood thereon: Set in his chaire, shame whispers in his eare That’s not his place, his nephew should be there: Doubt askes him, how he hopes t’enioy that long, When they do liue, whose right he keepes by wrong. 53. He that had drunke so oft of murder’s cup, To reach that height to which he did aspire, Now fils the measure of his mischiefe vp, And in vaine hope to raise his heart yet higher, Spares not the blood deduc’d from his owne sire: Poore orphanes blood, pris’d at a crowne’s rich wealth, To his sicke state can only promise health. 54. Whilst euery where his wandring eye doth range To find some wretch to put this taske vpon, All things about vs haue a sudden change, Vngrac’d, not car’d for, comforted of none, By our owne seruants we are left alone: Those that bemone our fortunes dare not stay, By feare constrain’d, with griefe they go their way. 55. Inconsolatly left in wofull plight, Each helping other for to waile and weepe, In dole we spend the day, and in the night Horror and dread of death doth waking keepe Our watchfull eyes, and bars them of their sleepe, Each little noise, each windie puffe of breath Affrights vs infants with th’approch of death. 56. Thou fatall building stain’d with noble blood, Thou den where horror and darke treason lies, Say if thou wast, since thy foundation stood, More mou’d to pitie humaine miseries, Hearing the echo of sad sorrowe’s cries: Then when yong _Yorke_ with pitious plaints and mones Powr’d forth his sorrowes to thy senselesse stones. 57.