How oft do they their silver bowers leave To come to succour us that succour want! — Edmund Spenser

As withered weed through cruell winters tine,

That feeles the warmth of sunny beames reflection,

Liftes up his head, that did before decline

And gins to spread his leafe before the faire sunshine.

A monster, which the Blatant beast men call,

A dreadfull feend of gods and men ydrad.

Who will not mercie unto others show,

How can he mercy ever hope to have?