"Die not before thy day! poor man condemned!
But lift thy low looks from th' humble earth!
Kiss not Despair, and see sweet Hope contemned!
The hag hath no delight, but moan for mirth!
O fie, poor fondling! fie, be willing
To preserve thyself from killing!
Hope, thy keeper, glad to free thee,
Bids thee go! and will not see thee.
Hie thee, quickly, from thy wrong!"
So She ends her willing song.
Mourn! Day is with darkness fled!
What heaven then governs earth?
O none, but hell, in heaven's stead,
Chokes with his mists, our mirth.
Mourn! Look, now, for no more day!
Nor night, but that from hell!
Then all must, as they may,
In darkness learn to dwell!
But yet this change must change our delight,
That thus the Sun should harbour with the Night.
