As in a duskie and tempestuous night,
A starre is wont to spreade her lockes of gold,
And while her pleasant rayes abroad are roll'd,
Some spitefull cloude doth robbe us of her sight:
Faire soule in this black age so shin'd thou bright,
And made all eyes with wonder thee beholde,
Till uglie Death depriving us of light,
In his grimme mistie armes thee did enfolde.
Who more shall vaunt true beautie heere to see?
What hope doth more in any heart remaine,
That such perfections shall his reason raine?
If beautie with thee borne too died with thee?
World, plaine no more of love, nor count his harmes,
With his pale trophes Death hath hung his armes.
A starre is wont to spreade her lockes of gold,
And while her pleasant rayes abroad are roll'd,
Some spitefull cloude doth robbe us of her sight:
Faire soule in this black age so shin'd thou bright,
And made all eyes with wonder thee beholde,
Till uglie Death depriving us of light,
In his grimme mistie armes thee did enfolde.
Who more shall vaunt true beautie heere to see?
What hope doth more in any heart remaine,
That such perfections shall his reason raine?
If beautie with thee borne too died with thee?
World, plaine no more of love, nor count his harmes,
With his pale trophes Death hath hung his armes.