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68 Yet not Himselfe, but Heavens Great King he blamd, And dard his wisdom and his will arraign; For boldly he the ways of God blasphemd, And of blind governaunce did loudly plain, While vild Selfe-pity would his eyes distain; As when an Wolfe, entrapt in village ground, In dread of death ygnaws his limb in twain, And views with scalding teares his bleeding wound: Such fierce Selfe-pity still this Wights dire portaunce crownd.

Near by there stood an hamlett in the dale, Where, in the silver age, did wonne; This now was His: yet all mote nought avail, His loathing eyes that place did ever shun; But ever through his Neighbours lawns would run, Where every goodlie fielde thrice goodlie seemd. Such was this weary Wight all woe-begone; Such was his life; and thus of things he deemd; And suchlike was his Cave, that all with sorrowes teemd.