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 They had ingag'd their wandring teps too far, And envious darknee, e're they could returne, Had tolne them from me, ele ô theevih Night Why houldt thou, but for ome fellonious end In thy darke lanterne thus cloe up the Stars, That nature hung in Heav'n, and fill'd their lamps With everlating oile to give due light To the miled, and lonely Travailer. This is the place, as well a I may guee Whence even now the tumult of loud Mirth Was rife, and perfect in my litening eare, Yet nought but ingle darknee doe I find, What might this be? A thouand fantaies Begin to throng into my memorie Of calling hapes, and beckning hadows dire, And ayrie tongues, that yllable mens names On Sands, and Shoars, and deert Wildernees. Thee thoughts may tartle well, but not atound The vertuous mind, that ever walks attended By a trong iding champion Concience. O welcome pure-ey'd Faith, white-handed Hope Thou flittering Angel girt with golden wings, And thou unblemih't forme of Chatitie I ee yee viibly, and now beleeve That he, the Supreme good, t'whom all things ill Are but as lavih officers of vengeance Would end a glitring Guardian if need were To keepe my life, and honour unaail'd. Was I deceiv'd, or did a able cloud Turne forth her ilver lining on the night? I did not erre, there does a ables cloud Turne forth her ilver lining on the night And