Syghes ar my foode, drynke are my teares;
Clynkinge of fetters suche musycke wolde crave.
Stynke and close ayer away my lyf wears;
Innocencie is all the hope I have.
Rayne, wynde, or wether I iudge by myne eares.
Mallice assaulted that rightiousnes should have.
Sure I am, Brian, this wounde shall heale agayne,
But yet, alas, the scarre shall styll remayne.