The Triumphs Of Philamore And Amoret. To The Noblest Of Our Youth And Best Of Friends, Charles Cotton, Esquire. Being At Berisford, At His House In Straffordshire. From London. A Poem
Sir, your sad absence I complain, as earth
Her long-hid spring, that gave her verdures birth,
Who now her cheerful aromatick head
Shrinks in her cold and dismal widow'd bed;
Whilst the false sun her lover doth him move
Below, and to th' antipodes make love.
What fate was mine, when in mine obscure cave
(Shut up almost close prisoner in a grave)
Your beams could reach me through this vault of night,
And canton the dark dungeon with light!