IV.

Among the heads that did the mass compose, Three royal skulls were there—one of a king— Meek saint, who never once revil’d his foes, His bloody foes that him to scaffold bring; One of a maid; O heaven! that I could sing With Spenser’s tongue, her spotless purity, Her holy zeal, in courts so rare a thing, By lawless fiends condemn’d she was to die, And sent, untimely sent, to seek her native sky.