University of Virginia Library

The Ecclipse.

Whither, O whither did'st thou fly
When I did grieve thine holy Eye?
When thou did'st mourn to see me lost,
And all thy Care and Councels crost.
O do not grieve where e'er thou art!
Thy grief is an undoing smart.
Which doth not only pain, but break
My heart, and makes me blush to speak.
Thy anger I could kiss, and will:
But (O!) thy grief, thy grief doth kill.