But fancie feeding on these thoughts, as I alone did wend,
The clocke did strike, whose chime did tell the day was at an end;
The golden sunne, daies guide, was gone, and in his purple bed
Had laid him downe, the heau’ns about their azure curtaines spread,
And all the tapers lighted were, as t’were the watch to keepe,
Lest past her houre night should vsurpe, while he secure did sleepe;
Then clad in cloake of mistie fogges the darke night vp did come,
And with grim grislie looke did seeme to bid me get me home;
Home was I led, not as before with solace from the field,
The wofull waste of summer past had all my pleasure spill’d: