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VVhen Phoebus rose he left his golden weede, And dond attire in deepest pulple dyed, His sanguine beames about his forhead spred, A sad presage of ill that should betide, ••ith vermile drops at euen his tresses bleed ••or shewes of future heate from th'Ocean wide. ••hilst thus he bent gainst earth his scorching raies, He burnt the flowers, and burnt his Clitia deare, The leaues grew wan vpon the withered spraies, The grasse and growing hearbes all parched were.
Earth cleft in rifts, in floods theyr streames decaies, The barren clowdes with lightning bright appeare, And mankind feard least Clymens child againe Had driuen away his Syers ill-guided vvaine. As from a fornace flew the smoake to skies, Such smoake as that when damned Sodome brent: Within his Caue sweete Zephyre silent lyes, Still was the ayre, the racke nor came nor went, But ore the lands with luke-warme breathing flies The Southerne winde, from sun-bright Affrique sent, vvith thicke and warme, his interrupted blasts, Vpon theyr bosoms, throates, and faces casts. Nor yet more comfort brought the gloomy night, In her thicke shade was burning heate vprold, Her sable mantle was imbrodered bright vvith blazing starres and gliding fires of gold. Nor to refresh sad earth thy thirsty spirit, The niggard Moone let fall her May-dewes cold, And dried vp the vitall moisture was In trees, in plants, in hearbs, in flowers, in grasse. Ed. Fairefax.