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 In gloomie euening, when the wearie Sun After his dayes long labour drew to reſt, And ſweatie ſteeds now hauing ouer run The compaſt ſkie, gan water in the weſt, I walkt abroade to breath the freſhing ayre In open fields, whoſe flowering pride oppreſt With early froſts, had loſt their beautie faire.

There came vnto my minde a troublous thought, Which dayly dooth my weaker wit poſſeſſe, Ne lets it reſt, vntill it forth haue brought Her long borne Infant, fruit of heauineſſe, Which ſhe conceiued hath through meditation Of this worlds vainneſſe and lifes wretchedneſſe, That yet my ſoule it deepely doth empaſſion.

So as I muzed on the miſerie, In which men liue, and I of many moſt, Moſt miſerable man; I did eſpie Where towards me a ſory wight did coſt, Clad all in black, that mourning did bewray: And Iaakob ſtaffe in hand deuoutlie croſt, Like to ſome Pilgrim come from farre away.

His careleſſe locks, vncombed and vnſhorne Hong long adowne, and beard all ouer growne, That well he ſeemd to be ſum wight forlorne; Downe to the earth his heauie eyes were throwne As loathing light: and euer as he went, He ſighed ſoft, and inly deepe did grone, As if his heart in peeces would haue rent. Approaching