Heauen was asham'd, to see our mother Earth
Engender with the Night, & teeme a birth
Soe foule, one minute's light had it but seene,
The fresh face of the morne had blasted beene.
Her rosy cheekes you should haue seene noe more

Dy'd in vermilion blushes, as before:

But in a vaile of clouds mufling her head
A solitary life she would haue led.
Affrighted Phoebus would haue lost his way,
Giving his wanton palfreys leaue to play
Olympick games in the' Olympian plaines,
His trembling hands loosing the golden raines.
The Queene of night gott the greene sicknes then,
Sitting soe long at ease in her darke denne,
Not daring to peepe forth, least that a stone
Should beate her headlong from her jetty throne.
Ioue's twinckling tapers, that doe light the world,
Had beene puft out, and from their stations hurl'd:
Eol kept in his wrangling sonnes, least they
With this grand blast should haue bin blowne away.
Amazed Triton, with his shrill alarmes

Bad sporting Neptune to pluck in his armes,
And leaue embracing of the Isles, least hee

Might be an actor in this Tragedy.

Nor should wee need thy crispèd waues, for wee An Ocean could haue made t' haue drowned thee. Torrents of salt teares from our eyes should runne, And raise a deluge, where the flaming sunne

And least thy blood-shott eyes should lead aside
This masse of cruelty, to be thy guide
Three coleblack sisters, (whose long sutty haire,
And greisly visages doe fright the aire;

When Night beheld them, shame did almost turne

Her sable cheekes into a blushing morne,

To see some fowler than herselfe) these stand,

Each holding forth to light the aery brand,
Whose purer flames tremble to be soe nigh,
And in fell hatred burning, angry dy.

Sly, lurking treason is his bosome freind,
Whom faint, & palefac't Feare doth still attend.
These need noe invitation, onely thou
Black dismall Horro', come; make perfect now
Th' epitome of Hell: oh lett thy pinions
Be a gloomy canopy to Pluto's minions.
In this infernall Majesty close shrowd

Your selues, you Stygian states; a pitchy clowd
Shall hang the roome, & for your tapers bright,
Sulphureous flames, snatch'd from æternall night.
But rest, affrighted Muse; thy siluer wings.
May not row neerer to these dusky rings.1
Cast back some amorous glances on the cates,
That heere are dressing by the hasty Fates,
Nay stopp thy clowdy eyes, it is not good,
To drowne thy selfe in this pure pearly flood.

1 May be 'kings;' but the Ms. doubtful. G.

VOL. I.

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