Thomas Middleton: Ix

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.