The poem
VNto 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 smart of 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.