(8)
They had ingag'd their wandring ſteps too far,
And envious darkneſſe, e're they could returne,
Had ſtolne them from me, elſe ô theeviſh Night
Why ſhouldſt thou, but for ſome fellonious end
In thy darke lanterne thus cloſe up the Stars,
That nature hung in Heav'n, and fill'd their lamps
With everlaſting oile to give due light
To the miſled, and lonely Travailer.
This is the place, as well a I may gueſſe
Whence even now the tumult of loud Mirth
Was rife, and perfect in my liſtening eare,
Yet nought but ſingle darkneſſe doe I find,
What might this be? A thouſand fantaſies
Begin to throng into my memorie
Of calling ſhapes, and beckning ſhadows dire,
And ayrie tongues, that ſyllable mens names
On Sands, and Shoars, and deſert Wilderneſſes.
Theſe thoughts may ſtartle well, but not aſtound
The vertuous mind, that ever walks attended
By a ſtrong ſiding champion Conſcience.
O welcome pure-ey'd Faith, white-handed Hope
Thou flittering Angel girt with golden wings,
And thou unblemiſh't forme of Chaſtitie
I ſee yee viſibly, and now beleeve
That he, the Supreme good, t'whom all things ill
Are but as ſlaviſh officers of vengeance
Would ſend a gliſtring Guardian if need were
To keepe my life, and honour unaſſail'd.
Was I deceiv'd, or did a ſable cloud
Turne forth her ſilver lining on the night?
I did not erre, there does a ſables cloud
Turne forth her ſilver lining on the night
