From Eclogue ij

Tell me fayre flocke, (if so you can conceaue)     The sodaine cause of my night-sunnes eclipse,     If this be wrought me my light to bereaue,     By Magick spels, from some inchanting lips     Or vgly Saturne from his combust sent,     This fatall presage of deaths dreryment.     Oh cleerest day-starre, honored of mine eyes,     Yet sdaynst mine eyes should gaze vpon thy light,     Bright morning sunne, who with thy sweet arise,     Expell'st the clouds of my harts lowring night,     Goddes reiecting sweetest sacrifice,     Of mine eyes teares ay offered to thine eyes.     May purest heauens scorne my soules pure desires?     Or holy shrines hate Pilgrims orizons?     May sacred temples gaynsay sacred prayers?     Or Saints refuse the poores deuotions?     Then Orphane thoughts with sorrow be you waind,     When loues Religion shalbe thus prophayn'd.     Yet needes the earth must droope with visage sad,     When siluer dewes been turn'd to bitter stormes,     The Cheerful Welkin, once in sables clad,     Her frownes foretell poore humaine creatures harmes.     And yet for all to make amends for this,     The clouds sheed teares, and weepen at my misse.