Thenceforth, as caytife cast in dungeon deepe, Where with fresh griefe my hart did hourely bleed, As Philomel that spends her time of sleepe In mournefull tunes recording his misdeed, Whose lust in wastefull woods her shame did breede, Night’s endlesse houres till death did end the same, Against my foes I wasted in exclame. 50. Famine, the childe of want did feast my soule, And in my brest her hungrie arrow steepe, The black night’s shreeking bird, the ghastlie oule With balefull notes in waking woe did keepe My greeued soule, when nature craued sleepe, With whose shrill shreekes my plaints did beare a part, And kept true time with sighes from sorrowing hart. 51. Sorrow and griefe with waste of teares drawne drie, Suppli’d the place where eyes did once remaine, Whose want of teares my hart did still supplie With drops of blood, fresh bleeding with the paine Of wounding griefe which it did long sustaine, Of which impatient to despaire being driuen, Cursing my birth, I thus did crie to heauen. 52. Woe worth the wombe, which nature did inforce To bring me forth and leaue me in neglect: Woe worth the starre, that did direct my course, If anie starre the course of life direct: Woe worth the houre, which did my birth detect: Woe to you all, that did conspire with foes To drowne my better dayes in bitter woes. 53. Why do I liue? ah, why liue I the space, Of half a day in this my mournefull mew? Why doth grim death so often shew his face? The woefull waste in me why doth he view Of nature’s worke: and yet not craue his due? Why do I liue, yet daylie die with paine? Why do I die, yet daylie liue againe? 54. To you therefore ye heau’ns, whose cheerefull face With mortall eyes I neuer more shall see, To you and all your powers I crie for grace: Let me, ah let me now no longer be, But by swift death from foes do set me free: My dayes be ouer long, for death I crie, End then my dayes (O God) and let me die. 55. Wanting the salue of patience, wherewithall To cure the sore of sorrow growne so rife In my grieu’d hart, thus forc’d I was to call For death to launch the wound with his sharpe knife, Which griefe had festerd in my loathed life: Who in his horrid shape himselfe did show To me poore wretch, with too much paine and woe. 56.