If orphane childe, enwrapt in swathing bands,
Doth move to mercy when forlorne it lyes;
If none without remorse of love withstands
The pitious noyse of infante's selye cryes;
Then hope, my helpelesse hart, some tender eares
Will rue thy orphane state and feeble teares.

Relinquisht lamb, in solitarye wood,
With dying bleat doth move the toughest mynde;
The grasping pangues of new engendred brood,
Base though they be, compassion use to finde:
Why should I then of pitty doubt to speede,
Whose happ would force the hardest hart to bleede?

Left orphane-like in helpelesse state I rue,
With onely sighes and teares I pleade my case;
My dying plaints I daylie do renewe,
And fill with heavy noyse a desert place:
Some tender hart will weepe to here me mone;
Men pitty may, but helpe me God alone!

Rayne downe, yee heavens, your teares this case requires;
Man's eyes unhable are enough to shedd;
If sorow could have place in heavenly quires,
A juster ground the world hath seldome bredd:
For Right is wrongd and Vertue wagd with blood;
The badd are blissd, God murdred in the good.

A gracious plant for fruite, for leafe and flower,
A peereles gemm for vertue, proofe and price,
A noble peere for prowesse, witt, and poure,
A frend to truth, a foe I was to vice;
And loe, alas! nowe innocente I dye,
A case that might even make the stones to crye. e'en

Thus Fortune's favors still are bent to flight,
Thus worldly blisse in finall bale doth end;
Thus Vertue still pursued is with spight,
But let my fall, though ruefull, none offend:
God doth sometymes first cropp the sweetest floure,
And leaves the weede till Tyme do it devoure.