Sonnet 10

FAire Moone who with thy cold and silver Shine,
Makes sweet the Horror of the dreadfull Night,
Delighting the weake Eye with smiles divine,
Which Phoebus dazels with his too much Light,
Bright Queen of the first Heaven, if in thy Shrine
By turning oft, and Heavens eternall Might,
Thou hast not yet that once sweet Fire of thine
Endemion, forgot, and Lovers Plight:
If Cause like thine may Pity breed in thee,
And Pity somewhat else to it obtaine,
Since thou hast Power of Dreames as well as He
That holds the golden Rod, and Morall Chaine:
Now while She sleeps in dolefull Guise her Show,
These Teares, and the black Map of all my Woe.