Closeth up now she is gone,
Judging her the setting Sunne.
A Dialogue between Night and Araphill.
| Night. | Let silence close my troubled eyes, Thy feare in Lethe steepe: The starres bright cent'nels of the skies, Watch to secure thy sleepe. |
| Araph. | The Norths unruly spirit lay In the disorder'd Seas: Make the rude Winter calme as May, And give a lover ease. |
| Night. | Yet why should feare with her pale charmes, Bewitch thee so to griefe? Since it prevents n' insuing harmes, Nor yeelds the past reliefe. |
| Araph. | And yet such horror I sustaine As the sad vessell, when Rough tempests have incenst the Maine, Her Harbor now in ken. |
| Night. | No conquest weares a glorious wreath Which dangers not obtaine: Let tempests 'gainst thee shipwracke breathe, Thou shalt thy harbour gaine. |
| Araph. | Truths Delphos doth not still foretell, Though Sol th' inspirer be. How then should night as blind as hell, Ensuing truths fore-see? |
| Night. | The Sunne yeelds man no constant flame. One light those Priests inspires. While I though blacke am still the same, And have ten thousand fires. |
| Araph. | But those, sayes my propheticke feare, As funerall torches burne; While thou thy selfe the blackes dost weare, T' attend me to my Urne. |
| Night. | Thy feares abuse thee, for those lights In Hymens Church shall shine, When he by th' mystery of his rites, Shall make Castara thine. |
To the Right Honourable, the Lady, E. P.
Your judgement's cleere, not wrinckled with the Time,
On th' humble fate: which censures it a crime,
To be by vertue ruin'd. For I know