To Endimion Porter, upon his recovery from a long Sicknesse.
Iust so the Sunne doth rise, as if last Night He cal'd t'accompt the Moone, for all the light She ever ow'd; now looks so full of scorne, And pride; as she had payd him all this Morne! So cleere a day, timely foretells; I now Shall scape those Clouds, that hung upon my Brow Whilst I thy sicknesse mourn'd; and lesse did sleep Than faithfull Widowes, that sincerely weep. A true presage! My hopes no sooner tell What they desir'd, but strait I finde thee well. Bless'd be the Stars; whose pow'rfull influence Our healths, by Minerals, and Hearbs dispence! And that's their chiefest use: who thinks that Fate So many Stars did purposely create, And them so large, meerely for show, and light; Concludes, it tooke lesse care, of Day, than Night. Since thou art safe, those Numbers will be lost, Which I laid up, to mourne thee as a Ghost: Unlesse I spend them on some Tragick Tale, Which Lovers shall beleeve, and then bewaile: Next Terme, prepare thee for the Theater! And untill then, reserve thy skilfull Eare; For I will sing imagin'd Tragedie, 'Till Fates repent their essence is so high From passion rays'd; 'cause they can ne're obtaine To taste the griefs, which gentle Poets feigne.
