XXVIII.

Darke, dusky Man, He needs would single forth, To make the partner of His Owne pure ray: And should we powers of Heav'n, spirits of worth, Bow our bright heads before a king of clay? It shall not be, said I, and clombe the North, Where never wing of angell yet made way: What though I mist my blow? yet I strooke high, And to dare something, is some victory.