THE PREFACE.
Y tremblinge hande for feare doth
my dolour doth excede: (quake)
My ioyes decreſe to tender teares
my ſportes are turnd in dede
The gredy gulfs of gryſly griefe
ſo gripe my reſtles harte:
That my pore pen can ſcantly ſhewe
the paſſions of my ſmarte.
Drawe nere you patrones with your babes
come viewe this haples happe:
In fluſhing fluddes of kominge teares
your tender bewtyes lappe:
Ye matrones milde drawe nere in haſte
this yrkſome acte beholde:
Then Nature ſhall her rufull playnts
by you her Nimphes unfolde.
Eche wight in whom the ſkilfull ſkyll
of natures arte is ſhown:
Surrender may themſelues to me
this cruell acte to mone.
The heapes of griefe ſo hugie are
that ſobbes muſt nedes abounde.
Yea ſhrilly ſhrickes to paſſe the ſkies,
your voyces ſhall redounde.
