My storie told, I may no longer stay,
My grieued ghost doth smell the morning’s aire:
The night on sable wings flies fast away,
The houres in east expecting daies repaire,
On cloudie hill sets vp her siluer chaire?
My guiltie ghost her light may not behold,
Adew, remember well what I haue told.
“Our night is at an end,” quoth Memorie,
“With which we heere will end our historie:
After this tyrant’s fall, that dismall night,