VIII.

O you, your own best darts, Dear, dolefull hearts! Hail! and strike home, and make me see That wounded bosomes their own weapons be. Come wounds! come darts! 75 Nail'd hands! and peirced hearts! Come your whole selues, Sorrow's great Son and mother! Nor grudge a yonger brother Of greifes his portion, who (had all their due) One single wound should not haue left for you. 80