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 | Poems by Robert Gomersall |  |
The night they spend in prayer, but whē the morne
Had dimm'd the pride of Cynthia's cleerest horne
By higher luster, being call'd away
Not by the Cocke, the Trumpetter of Day;
But by an earlier trumpet, then you might
By her unwilling, and yet hasting light,
Discerne, and seeing, almost rightly poyse
Whether were more, their number, or their noyse,
And unto which more feare was to be giv'n.
Who fill the Earth with Numbers, with noyse Heav'n.
Had dimm'd the pride of Cynthia's cleerest horne
By higher luster, being call'd away
Not by the Cocke, the Trumpetter of Day;
But by an earlier trumpet, then you might
By her unwilling, and yet hasting light,
Discerne, and seeing, almost rightly poyse
Whether were more, their number, or their noyse,
And unto which more feare was to be giv'n.
Who fill the Earth with Numbers, with noyse Heav'n.
| Poems by Robert Gomersall | |