Xx

Where griesly Night,° with visage deadly sad, That Phoebus chearefull face durst never vew, And in a foule blacke pitchie mantle clad, She findes forth comming from her darkesome mew, Where she all day did hide her hated hew. Before the dore her yron charet stood, Alreadie harnessed for journey new; And coleblacke steedes yborne of hellish brood, That on their rustie bits did champ, as they were wood.