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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374399" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Poem 95</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374399" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">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.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Edmund+Spenser">Edmund Spenser</a></strong></div>

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