WHat time, with brow, the Loveliest 'gins to scowl; Shewing disdain and fury in her face: Methinks I see the clouds wax dark and foul; And gloomy night begins to run his race. But, then again, when She to show begins Her smiling cheer, adorned with favour rare: Straightways the sun, in chariot bright forth springs; Clear are the skies; the gladsome day, most fair. Thus, in one face, I see, against my will, The rising of the sun; and falling, still.
XXI.
RAnkle the wound did in my head apace; When fairest She, to play the Surgeon came: And whilst her snow-white hand did me the grace To lay the plaster on, which healed the same, A wonder strange! No sooner did she touch The hurt; but it appeared to be none such. Yet, woe is me, no sooner by that hand Was healed in head my outward fest'ring wound; But that instead of that, as countermand, One mortal scar at inward heart I found. Thus, Love! thou seest is changèd my estate She checks with Death, that 'fore gave Life for mate.
XXII.
