YET, being so chill’d, do we not chide the sun,
And say he wilful hides his face away,
Say ’tis his will makes the world drear and dun,
And takes the golden glory from the day?
The envious rack we rather should reproach,
That comes betwixt us in despite of him,
Rebellious powers, that on his reign encroach,
And, black themselves, his brightness joy to dim.
So when the troubling mischiefs of the time,
Or baser minds, bent upon marring thee,
Stole moments of thy favour, then my rhyme
Slander’d thy love and slurr’d thy constancy.
Yet the sun’s self unstain’d and bright remains,
And my heart knew thy stains were not thy stains.