THOMAS MIDDLETON

A wild moon riding high from cloud to cloud,

That sees and sees not, glimmering far beneath,

Hell's children revel along the shuddering heath

With dirge-like mirth and raiment like a shroud:

A worse fair face than witchcraft's, passion-proud,

With brows blood-flecked behind their bridal wreath

And lips that bade the assassin's sword find sheath

Deep in the heart whereto love's heart was vowed:

A game of close contentious crafts and creeds

Played till white England bring black Spain to shame:

A son's bright sword and brighter soul, whose deeds

High conscience lights for mother's love and fame:

Pure gipsy flowers, and poisonous courtly weeds:

Such tokens and such trophies crown thy name.