Heav'n saw her rise, and saw Hell in the sight: The fields' faire eyes saw her, and saw no more, But shut their flowry lids for ever: Night And Winter strow her way: yea, such a sore Is she to Nature, that a generall fright, An universal palsie spreading o're The face of things, from her dire eyes had run, Had not her thick snakes hid them from the sun. XLIX. Now had the Night's companion from her dew, Where all the busie day she close doth ly, With her soft wing wipt from the browes of men Day's sweat; and by a gentle tyranny And sweet oppression, kindly cheating them Of all their cares, tam'd the rebellious eye Of Sorrow, with a soft and downy hand, Sealing all brests in a Lethæan band. L. When the Erinnys her black pineons spread, And came to Bethlem, where the cruell king Had now retyr'd himselfe, and borrowed His brest a while from Care's unquiet sting; Such as at Thebes' dire feast she shew'd her head, Her sulphur-breathèd torches brandishing: Such to the frighted palace now she comes, And with soft feet searches the silent roomes. LI. By Herod___________________now was borne The scepter, which of old great David swaid; Whose right by David's linage so long worne, _lineage_ Himselfe a stranger to, his owne had made; And from the head of Judah's house quite torne The crowne, for which upon their necks he laid A sad yoake, under which they sigh'd in vaine, And looking on their lost state sigh'd againe. LII. Vp, through the spatious pallace passèd she, To where the king's proudly-reposèd head (If any can be soft to Tyranny And selfe-tormenting sin) had a soft bed. She thinkes not fit, such, he her face should see, As it is seene in Hell, and seen with dread. To change her face's stile she doth devise, And in a pale ghost's shape to spare his eyes. LIII. Her selfe a while she layes aside, and makes Ready to personate a mortall part. Ioseph, the king's dead brother's shape, she takes: What he by nature was, is she by art. She comes to th' king, and with her cold hand slakes His spirits (the sparkes of life) and chills his heart, Life's forge; fain'd is her voice, and false too, be Her words: 'sleep'st thou, fond man? sleep'st thou?' said she. LIV. So sleeps a pilot, whose poore barke is prest With many a mercylesse o're-mastring wave; For whom (as dead) the wrathfull winds contest Which of them deep'st shall digge her watry grave. Why dost thou let thy brave soule lye supprest In death-like slumbers, while thy dangers crave A waking eye and hand? looke vp and see The Fates ripe, in their great conspiracy. LV.