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LXX.

Great marvell at her ſolemn cheer he made;

Then, ſobbing deepe, Glad will Syr Martyn be,
Faire Syr, of your retourne, ſhe gently ſaid;
But what miſhap! our infant familie,
The dearest babes, though they were nought to me,
That ever breathd, are laid in deadlie plight:
What shall we do!—great were your courteſie
To lodge in yonder tenants houſe to night;
The ſkilfull leache forbids that noiſe my babes ſhould fright.

LXXI.

Blunt was the Boy, and to the farme-houſe nigh

To wait his brother, at her bidding fares,
Conducted by a goſſip pert and ſly:
Kathrin the while her malengines prepares.
Now gan the duſke ſuſpend the plowmans cares,
When from his rural ſportes arrives the Knight;
Soon with his mates the jovial bowl he ſhares,
His hall reſounds!—amazd the ſtranger wight
Arreads it all as done to him in fell deſpight.