This night, while sleep begins with heavy wings To hatch mine eyes, and that unbitted thought Doth fall to stray, and my chief powers are brought To leave the sceptre of all subject things, The first that straight my fancy's error brings Unto my mind, is Stella's image, wrought By love's own self; but with so curious draught That she, methinks, not only shines, but sings. I start, look, heark; but what in closed-up sense Was held, in opened sense it flies away, Leaving me nought but wailing eloquence. I, seeing better sights in sight's decay, Called it anew, and wooed sleep again: But him, her host, that unkind guest had slain. |