Dayly when I do seeke and sew for peace,
And hostages doe offer for my truth,
She, cruell warriour, doth her selfe addresse
To battell, and the weary war renew’th;
Ne wilbe moov’d, with reason or with rewth*,
To graunt small respit to my restlesse toile;
But greedily her fell intent poursewth,
Of my poore life to make unpittied spoile.
Yet my poore life, all sorrowes to assoyle,
I would her yield, her wrath to pacify;
But then she seeks, with torment and turmoyle,
To force me live, and will not let me dy.
All paine hath end, and every war hath peace;
But mine, no price nor prayer may surcease.
[* _Rewth_, ruth, pity.]