XX. What time, with brow, the Loveliest ’gins to scowl

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

WHAT time, with brow, the Loveliest ’gins to scowl;

Shewing disdain and fury in her face:

Methinks I see the clouds wax dark and foul;

And gloomy night begins to run his race.

But, then again, when She to show begins

Her smiling cheer, adorned with favour rare:

Straightways the sun, in chariot bright forth springs;

Clear are the skies; the gladsome day, most fair.

Thus, in one face, I see, against my will,

The rising of the sun; and falling, still.