8
ASTROPHEL.
Faith, discrowned of her praise, and wound about with
toils till her life wax numb,
Scarce may see if the sundawn be, if darkness die not
and dayrise come.
But England, enmeshed and benetted
With spiritless villainies round,
With counsels of cowardice fretted,
With trammels of treason enwound,
Is yet, though the season be other
Than wept and rejoiced over thee,
Thine England, thy lover, thy mother,
Sublime as the sea.
Hers wast thou: if her face be now less bright, or seem
for an hour less brave,
Let but thine on her darkness shine, thy saviour spirit
revive and save,
Time shall see, as the shadows flee, her shame entombed
in a shameful grave.
