Letters of sad contents.
Putting her fingers to unrip, the seale Cleaving to keepe those sorrowes from her eyes, As it were loth the tidings to reveal, VVhence grief should spring in such variety, But strongly urg'd, both to her will appeal, VVhen the soft w••x unto her touch implies, Sticking unto her fingers bloody red, To shew the bad news quickly followed, And for a fescue, she doth use her tears, That when some line shee loosely overpast, The drops do tell her where she left the last, Her trembling hand as in a feaver shakes, VVherewith the the paper doth a litle stir, VVhich she imagins at her sorrow shakes, And pities it, which she thinks pities her, Made the short letter long, by reading it oft over.I burst ope the letter, but not till after the third pluck, as if the•• dumbe wax, pitying my too nigh approaching unhappinesse, seeme•• to be an unwilling messenger of my misery.