Astrophel and Stella: 99

When far-spent night perswades each mortall eye,To whom nor art nor nature graunteth light,To lay his then marke wanting shafts of sight,Clos'd with their quiuers in sleeps armory;With windowes ope then most my mind doth lie,Viewing the shape of darknesse and delight,Takes in that sad hue, which with th'inward night,Of his mazde powers keepes perfit harmony:But when birds charme, and that sweet aire, which isMornes messenger, with rose enameld skiesCals each wight to salute the floure of blisse;In tombe of lids then buried are mine eyes,For'st by their Lord, who is asham'd to findSuch light in sense, with such a darkned mind.