On the death of virtuous Lady

Attired in black, spangled with flames of fire,
Embroiderid with stars in silent night,
While Phoebus doth the lower world inspire
With his bright beams and comfort-breathing sprite,
I come in clouds of grief, with pensive soul,
Sending forth vapours of black discontent
To fill the concave circle of the Pole,
And with my tears bedew each continent:
Because that she that made my night seem day
By her pure virtues' ever-shining lamps,
Now makes my night more black by her decay,
Wandering with ghosts in the Elysian camps:
Wherefore I still will wear a mourning veil,
For she is dead, and human flesh is frail.