The Masque. Poem by Daniel Baker

Ingrateful and malicious Maid,
A Veil of Darkness thou hast thrown
Over that Beauty which display'd
Thy Maker's Glory not thine own.

What spleenful Avarice is this,
To hoard that Treasure, which before
Fill'd all the World with Light and Bliss,
Yet wasted not the boundless Store?

Dear Niggard, imitate the Sun,
(The Sun, thy fit similitude)
He shines not to himself alone,
But for the publick Joy and Good.

Remove the Cloud, that from thine Eyes
Mankind may Light and Comfort take:
Or if our Service thou despise,
Yet do it for thine own Name's sake.

Thy Face will lose its Sov'raign Praise
By this obscure Retreat of thine:
Behold! Since thou hast hid thy Rays,
How proudly meaner Beauties shine!

Arise my Love, and make them know
They owe their Lustre to thy Night,
The Stars grow dull, and make no show,
When once the Sun appears in sight.

Since that which made the Day so clear
The Sun shine of thine Eyes is fled,
Let Night (Love's wished Hour) my Dear,
Softly conduct us both to Bed.