Dayly when I do seeke and sew for peace,
    And hostages doe offer for my truth:
    she cruell warriour doth her selfe addresse
    to battell, and the weary war renew'th.
Ne wilbe moov'd with reason or with rewth,
    to graunt small respit to my restlesse toile:
    but greedily her fell intent poursewth,
    Of my poore life to make unpitteid spoile.
Yet my poore life, all sorrowes to assoyle,
    I would her yield, her wrath to pacify:
    but then she seekes with torment and turmoyle,
    to force me live and will not let me dy.
All paine hath end and every war hath peace,
    but mine no price nor prayer may surcease.