 | The Transformed Metamorphosis |  |
The Epilogue.
Now are the pitchie Curtains (that enclosde
The heau'nly radiance of Apollo's shine)
Drawne backe; and all that in hels caue reposd,
Are dauncing chearely in a siluer twine,
With heau'ns Vrania, shaming Proserpine.
Hell's Phlegetontike torches are put forth:
And now the Sunne doth face the frosty north.
The heau'nly radiance of Apollo's shine)
Drawne backe; and all that in hels caue reposd,
Are dauncing chearely in a siluer twine,
With heau'ns Vrania, shaming Proserpine.
Hell's Phlegetontike torches are put forth:
And now the Sunne doth face the frosty north.
Sacred Apollo, cheeres the lightsome day,
And swan-plum'd Phœbe gards the star-faire night,
Lest Pluto's forester, should cause estray,
Darke Cosmos Pilgrim's wandring without light;
Heau'ns star-embroderie doth shine full bright,
Heau'ns sacred lights agree in one consent,
To driue the cloudes from foorth the firmament.
And swan-plum'd Phœbe gards the star-faire night,
Lest Pluto's forester, should cause estray,
Darke Cosmos Pilgrim's wandring without light;
Heau'ns star-embroderie doth shine full bright,
Heau'ns sacred lights agree in one consent,
To driue the cloudes from foorth the firmament.
Now is the Moone not blemisht with a cloud,
Nor any lampe (that should illuminate
And lighten eu'ry thing that heau'n doth shrowd)
Darkned; or else my sight gin's to abate,
And s'reaued of it intellectuate.
Each obscure caue is lightned by the day:
Or else mine eyes are forced to estray.
Nor any lampe (that should illuminate
And lighten eu'ry thing that heau'n doth shrowd)
Darkned; or else my sight gin's to abate,
And s'reaued of it intellectuate.
Each obscure caue is lightned by the day:
Or else mine eyes are forced to estray.
But when my heart was vrged forth to breath,
Fell accents of soule-terrifying paine;
My subiect was a heau'nly tapers death;
Night was my lampe; my inke, hell's pitchy maine:
Then blame me not, if my wittes light did waine,
Since but with night, I could with none conferre
In this my Epinyctall register.
Fell accents of soule-terrifying paine;
My subiect was a heau'nly tapers death;
Night was my lampe; my inke, hell's pitchy maine:
Then blame me not, if my wittes light did waine,
Since but with night, I could with none conferre
In this my Epinyctall register.
| The Transformed Metamorphosis | |