No date prefixed directs me in the starry rubric set.
Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell.
His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear'd Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess Of glory obscur'd.
More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchang'd To hoarse or mute, though fall'n on evil days, On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.