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Nor will the shott stay there, but with full violence Run through the rancke of frends, disperse and totter The best and fairest hopes thy fame was built on. Leid. What have I done, how am I foold and cozend! What shall redeeme me from this Ignoraunce! Bar. Not any thing thou aymst at, thou art lost: A most unpittied way thou falst. Leid.
The poor they want their pay, their Children bread, Their woful Mothers' tears unpittied. If any pity in thy heart remain, Or any child-like love thou dost retain, For my relief, do what there lyes in thee, And recompence that good I've done to thee.
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