William Drummond of Hawthornden (1585–1649)

AS, in a dusky and tempestuous night,

A star is wont to spread her locks of gold,

And while her pleasant rays abroad are roll’d,

Some spiteful cloud doth rob us of her sight;

Fair soul, in this black age so shin’d thou bright,

And made all eyes with wonder thee behold,

Till ugly Death, depriving us of light,

In his grim misty arms thee did enfold.

Who more shall vaunt true beauty here to see?

What hope doth more in any heart remain,

That such perfections shall his reason rein,

If beauty, with thee born, too died with thee?

World, plain no more of Love, nor count his harms;

With his pale trophies Death hath hung his arms.