Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde Whose dreadfull name late through all low, 115 As he would speake, but that he lackt a. tong, Spaine did thunder, And Hercules two pillors standing neere Did make to quake and feare. Yeat did by signes his glad affection show, Faire branch of honor, flower of chevalrie, Making his streame run slow. That fillest England with thy triumphes I read it in thy looks: thy languished grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think Nature me a man-at-arms did make. How far they shot awry! the true cause is. Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. 1 press, throng. |