Deare night, the ease of care,
Vntroubled seate of peace,
Time's eldest childe, which oft the blinde doe see,
On this our hemispheare
What makes thee now so sadly darke to bee?
Comm'st thou in funerall pompe her graue to grace?
Or doe those starres which should thy horrour cleare,
In Ioue's high hall aduise,
In what part of the skies,
With them, or Cynthia, shee shall appeare?
Or, ah, alas! because those matchlesse eyes
Which shone so faire, below thou dost not finde,
Striu'st thou to make all other eyes looke blinde?