XI.

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.]