Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile
Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.
If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
An old black ram is tupping your white ewe