Looke how a wanton Bridegroome in the morne, Busilie labours to make glad the day, And at the noone, with wings of courage borne, Recourts his bride with dauncing and with play, Vntil the night which holds meane bliss in scorne, By action kills imaginations sway, And then, euen then, gluts and confounds his thought, With all the sweets, conceit or Nature wrought, Euen so our Knight the bridegroome vnto _Fame_, Toild in his battailes morning with vnrest, At noone triumph'd and daunst, and made his game, That vertue by no death could be deprest; But when the night of his loues longings came, Euen then his intellectuall soule confest All other ioyes imaginarie were Honour vnconquerd, heauen and earth held deare. The bellowing shotte which wakened dead mens swounds, As _Dorian_ musick, sweetned his cares, Ryuers of blood, issuing from fountaine wounds, Hee pytties, but augments not with his teares, The flaming fier which mercilesse abounds, Hee not so much as masking torches feares, The dolefull Eccho of the soules halfe dying, Quicken his courage in their banefull crying. When foule _Misfortune_ houering on a Rock, (The stonie girdle of the _Florean_ Ile,) Had seene this conflict, and the fearfull shock, Which all the _Spanish_ mischiefes did compile, And saw how conquest licklie was to mock The hope of _Spayne_, and fauster her exile, Immortall shee, came downe herselfe to fight, And doe what else no mortall creature might. And as she flew the midnights waking starre, Sad _Cassiopea_ with a heauie cheare, Pusht forth her forehead, to make known from farre, What time the dryrie dole of earth drew neare, But when shee saw _Misfortune_ arm'd in warre, With teares she blinds her eyes, and clouds the ayre, And asks the Gods, why _Fortune_ fights with man? They say, to doe, what else no creature can. O why should such immortall enuie dwell, In the enclosures of eternall mould? Let Gods with Gods, and men with men retell, Vnequall warres t'vnequall shame is sould; But for this damned deede came shee from hell, And _Ioue_ is sworne, to doe what dest'nie would, Weepe then my pen, the tell-tale of our woe, And curse the fount from whence our sorrows flow. Now, now, _Misfortune_ fronts our Knight in armes, And casts her venome through the _Spanysh_ hoast, Shee salues the dead, and all the lyuing warmes With vitall enuie, brought from _Plutos_ coast; Yet all in vaine, all works not _Grinuils_ harmes; Which seene, shee smiles, and yet with rage imbost[5] Saith to her selfe, since men are all too weake, Behold a goddesse shall thy lifes twine breake. With that shee takes a Musket in her hand, Raft from a dying Souldiour newlie slaine, And ayming where th' vnconquered Knight did stand, Dischargd it through his bodie, and in twaine Deuids the euer holie nuptiall band, Which twixt his soule, and worlds part shold remaine, Had not his hart, stronger then _Fortunes_ will, Held life perforce to scorne _Misfortunes_ ill.