 | The Transformed Metamorphosis |  |
The Prologue
O who perswades my willing errorie,
Into this blacke Cymerianized night?
Who leades me into this concauitie,
This huge cancauitie, defect of light,
To feele the smart of Phlegetontike fight?
O who, I say, perswades mine infant eie,
To gaze vpon my youths obscuritie?
Into this blacke Cymerianized night?
Who leades me into this concauitie,
This huge cancauitie, defect of light,
To feele the smart of Phlegetontike fight?
O who, I say, perswades mine infant eie,
To gaze vpon my youths obscuritie?
What ashie ghost, what dead Cadauerie,
What Geomantike iaw howles in mine eares,
The ecchoized sounds of horrorie?
What chaoizd conceit doth forme my feares?
What obiect is't that thus my quiet teares?
Who puts a flaming torch into my hand,
And bids me charily see where I stand?
What Geomantike iaw howles in mine eares,
The ecchoized sounds of horrorie?
What chaoizd conceit doth forme my feares?
What obiect is't that thus my quiet teares?
Who puts a flaming torch into my hand,
And bids me charily see where I stand?
Who fills my nosthrills with thicke foggy sents?
Who feedes my taste with hony-smacking gall?
What pallid spirit tells of strange euents?
Of euiternal night? of Phœbus fall?
Where is that Symphonie harmonicall,
Wherewith my heart was wont to tune sweet laies,
And teach my tongue to sing th' Æternall's praise?
Who feedes my taste with hony-smacking gall?
What pallid spirit tells of strange euents?
Of euiternal night? of Phœbus fall?
Where is that Symphonie harmonicall,
Wherewith my heart was wont to tune sweet laies,
And teach my tongue to sing th' Æternall's praise?
O who, O who hath metamorphosed
My sence? and plutoniz'd my heau'nly shape?
What martyred Diana is't doth reade
The tragicke story of Lucretia's rape?
O who affrights me with blacke horrors gape?
Who tells me that the azure-colour'd skie,
Is now transformd to hel's enuironrie.
My sence? and plutoniz'd my heau'nly shape?
What martyred Diana is't doth reade
The tragicke story of Lucretia's rape?
O who affrights me with blacke horrors gape?
Who tells me that the azure-colour'd skie,
Is now transformd to hel's enuironrie.
Are not the lights that Iupiter appoynted
To grace the heau'ns, and to direct the sight,
Still in that function, which them first annoynted?
Is not the world directed by their light?
And is not rest, the exercise of night?
Why is the skie so pitchie then at noone,
As though the day were gouern'd by the Moone?
To grace the heau'ns, and to direct the sight,
Still in that function, which them first annoynted?
Is not the world directed by their light?
And is not rest, the exercise of night?
Why is the skie so pitchie then at noone,
As though the day were gouern'd by the Moone?
Looke on my sight you lycophosed eies,
And tell me whether it be blear'd or no:
Daz'led with objects contrarieties,
With opposites of sad confused woe,
Or els transpiercing:ayre-cleare brightnes, loe:
My eies, whether they be, or dimm'd or cleare,
Clearely discerne a Transformation neare.
And tell me whether it be blear'd or no:
Daz'led with objects contrarieties,
With opposites of sad confused woe,
Or els transpiercing:ayre-cleare brightnes, loe:
My eies, whether they be, or dimm'd or cleare,
Clearely discerne a Transformation neare.
| The Transformed Metamorphosis | |