That giv’st, after thy declinatión, To each of them his time and his seasón, As thine herberow 3286 changeth low and high; Lord Phoebus! cast thy merciable 3287 eye On wretch’d Aurelius, which that am but lorn. 3288 Lo, lord, my lady hath my death y-sworn, Withoutë guilt, but 3289 thy benignity Upon my deadly heart have some pitý. For well I wot, Lord Phoebus, if you lest, 3290 Ye may me helpë, save my lady, best. Now vouchësafe, that I may you devise 3291 How that I may be holp, 3292 and in what wise. Your blissful sister, Lucina the sheen,