Nor yet more comfort brought the gloomy night;
In her thick shades was burning heat up roll’d,
Her sable mantle was embroider’d bright,
With blazing stars and gliding fires for gold.
Nor to refresh (sad earth’s) thy thirsty sprite
The niggard Moon let fall her May-dews cold,
And dried up the vital moisture was
In trees, in plants, in herbs, in flowers, in grass.
And little Silve, that his store bestows
Of purest crystal on the Christian hands,