That she mourned not.
122. I must accuse the custome of the place,
Where most our auncestors themselves doe want
Due monuments theyr memoryes to plant.
130. Soe hard it is to virtue to reclayme
The mynde where pride or malice giueth ayme.
132. Noe cause soe bad you knowe, but colours may
Be layd to beautifie what princes say.
135. A fetch soe foule as to report I shame,
Euen to depriue the life I lately gave,
And shed the bloud I would have dyed to save.
136. A dangerous thing it is once to incur
A common bruit or light suspect of ill,
Fame flyeth fast, the worse she is more farr
She goeth, and soone a jealous head will fill;
What most men say is held for Ghospell still.