XX.
Fly! Fly! my friends; I have my death wound, fly!
See there that boy! that murdering boy, I say!
Who, like a thief, hid in dark bush doth lie,
Till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey!
So, tyrant! he no fitter place could spy,
Nor so fair level in so secret stay,
As that sweet black which veils the heavenly eye:
There himself with his shot, he close doth lay.
Poor passenger! pass now thereby I did,
And stayed, pleased with the prospect of the place;
While that black hue from me the bad guest hid:
But straight I saw motions of lightning grace,
And then descried the glistering of his dart;
But ere I could fly hence, it pierced my heart.
XXI.
Your words, my friend! (right healthful caustics!)
blame
My young mind marred, whom love doth windlass so;
That mine own writings (like bad servants) show
My wits quick in vain thoughts; in virtue, lame.
"That PLATO I read for nought, but if he tame
Such coltish years; that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires: lest else that friendly foe
Great Expectation, wear a train of shame."
"For since mad March great promise made of me;
If now the May of my years much decline,
What can be hoped my harvest time will be?"
Sure you say well! Your wisdom's golden mine,
Dig deep with learning's spade! Now tell me this,
Hath this world ought so fair as STELLA is?
