ABSTRACT
And though with greater payne she cloked sorowes smart, Yet did her paled face disclose the passions of her hart. Her sighing every howre, her weping every where, Her recheles heede of meate, of slepe, and wearing of her geare, The carefull mother markes; then of her health afrayde, Because the greefes increased still, thus to her child she sayde. Deere daughter, if you shoulde long languishe in this sort, I stand in doute that over soone your sorowes will make
short 1790 Your loving fathers life, and myne, that love you more Then our owne propre breth, and life. Brydel hence forth therfore Your greefe, and payne, your selfe on joy your thought to set, For time it is that now you should our Tybalts death forget, Of whom, since God hath claymd the lyfe that was but lent, He is in blisse, ne is there cause why you should thus lament. You can not call him backe with teares, and shrikinges shrill: It is a fait thus still to grudge at Gods appoynted will. The seely soule had now no longer powre to fayne, Ne longer could she hyde her harme, but aunswered thus
agayne, r8oo With heavy broken sighes, with visage pale and ded. Madame, the last of Tybalts teares, a great while since I shed, Whose spring hath been ere this so laded out by me, That empty quite, and moystureles, I gesse it now to be, So that my payned hart by conduites of the eyne, No more henceforth (as wont it was) shall gush forth dropping
bryn e. The wofull mother knew not, what her daughter ment, And loth to vexe her childe by woordes, her peace she warely
hent, But when from howre to howre, from morow to the morow, Still more and more she saw increast her daughters wonted
sorow, 1810 All meanes she sought of her, and howshold folke, to know The certaine roote, whereon her greefe, and booteless mone doth
growe. But lo, she hath in vayne, her time and labor lore, Wherfore without all measures, is her hart tormented sore, And sith her selfe could not fynd out the cause of care, She thought it good to tell the syre, how yll his childe did fare.
