When far-spent night persuades each mortal eye, To whom nor art nor nature granteth light, To lay his then mark-wanting shafts of sight, Closed with their quivers, in sleep’s armoury: With windows ope then most my mind doth lie, Viewing the shape of darkness and delight; Takes in that sad hue, which with th’inward night Of his mazed powers keeps perfect harmony. But when birds charm, and that sweet air, which is Morn’s messenger, with rose-enameled skies, Calls each wight to salute the flower of bliss: In tomb of lids, then buried are mine eyes, Forced by their lord, who is ashamed