To whome nor Art nor Nature granted light:
To lay his then marke wanting shaftes of sight;
Clos’d whith their quivers in Sleeps armorie;
With windowes ope then most my heart doth lye
Viewing the shape of darknes and delight,
And takes that sad hue, with which inward might
Of his mazde powres he keeps just harmony:
But when birds chirpe aire, and sweet aire which is
Mornes messenger with rose enameld skyes
Calls each wight to salute the heaven of blisse;