html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Iust so the Sunne doth rise, as if last Night
He cal'd t'accompt the Moone, for all the light
She ever ow'd; now looks so full of scorne,
And pride; as she had payd him all this Morne!
So cleere a day, timely foretells; I now
Shall scape those Clouds, that hung upon my Brow
Whilst I thy sicknesse mourn'd; and lesse did sleep
Than faithfull Widowes, that sincerely weep.
A true presage! My hopes no sooner tell
What they desir'd, but strait I finde thee well.
Bless'd be the Stars; whose pow'rfull influence
Our healths, by Minerals, and Hearbs dispence!
And that's their chiefest use: who thinks that Fate
So many Stars did purposely create,
And them so large, meerely for show, and light;
Concludes, it tooke lesse care, of Day, than Night.
Since thou art safe, those Numbers will be lost,
Which I laid up, to mourne thee as a Ghost:
Unlesse I spend them on some Tragick Tale,
Which Lovers shall beleeve, and then bewaile:
Next Terme, prepare thee for the Theater!
And untill then, reserve thy skilfull Eare;
For I will sing imagin'd Tragedie,
'Till Fates repent their essence is so high
From passion rays'd; 'cause they can ne're obtaine
To taste the griefs, which gentle Poets feigne.