VNto his mother straight he weeping came, <br />and of his griefe complayned: <br />Who could not chose but laugh at his fond game, <br />though sad to see him pained. <br />Think now (quod she) my sonne how great the smart <br />of those whom thou dost wound: <br />Full many thou hast pricked to the hart, <br />that pitty neuer found: <br />Therefore henceforth some pitty take, <br />when thou doest spoyle of louers make.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poem-95/
