Nto his mother straight he weeping came,and of his griefe complayned:
Who could not chose but laugh at his fond game,though sad to see him pained.
Think now (quod she) my sonne how great the smartof those whom thou dost wound:
Full many thou hast pricked to the hart,that pitty neuer found:
Therefore henceforth some pitty take,when thou doest spoyle of louers make.
