Or if they could; what close, what foreign land
Can hide that head that flees from thee?
But if her harmless light
Offend thy sight
What need’st thou snatch at noon, what must be thine at night?
Death.
I have outstaid my patience; my quick trade
Grows dull and makes too slow return:
This long-liv’d debt is due, and should been paid
When first her flame began to burn: