Thunder:  the flesh quails, and the soul bows down. 
  Night:  east, west, south, and northward, very night. 
  Star upon struggling star strives into sight,
Star after shuddering star the deep storms drown. 
The very throne of night, her very crown,
  A man lays hand on, and usurps her right. 
  Song from the highest of heaven’s imperious height
Shoots, as a fire to smite some towering town. 
Rage, anguish, harrowing fear, heart-crazing crime,
Make monstrous all the murderous face of Time
  Shown in the spheral orbit of a glass
Revolving.  Earth cries out from all her graves. 
Frail, on frail rafts, across wide-wallowing waves,
  Shapes here and there of child and mother pass.

VIII

THOMAS DECKER

Out of the depths of darkling life where sin
  Laughs piteously that sorrow should not know
  Her own ill name, nor woe be counted woe;
Where hate and craft and lust make drearier din
Than sounds through dreams that grief holds revel in;
  What charm of joy-bells ringing, streams that flow,
  Winds that blow healing in each note they blow,
Is this that the outer darkness hears begin?

O sweetest heart of all thy time save one,
Star seen for love’s sake nearest to the sun,
  Hung lamplike o’er a dense and doleful city,
Not Shakespeare’s very spirit, howe’er more great,
Than thine toward man was more compassionate,
  Nor gave Christ praise from lips more sweet with pity.

IX

THOMAS MIDDLETON

A wild moon riding high from cloud to cloud,
  That sees and sees not, glimmering far beneath,
  Hell’s children revel along the shuddering heath
With dirge-like mirth and raiment like a shroud: 
A worse fair face than witchcraft’s, passion-proud,
  With brows blood-flecked behind their bridal wreath
  And lips that bade the assassin’s sword find sheath
Deep in the heart whereto love’s heart was vowed: 
A game of close contentious crafts and creeds
  Played till white England bring black Spain to shame: 
A son’s bright sword and brighter soul, whose deeds
  High conscience lights for mother’s love and fame: 
Pure gipsy flowers, and poisonous courtly weeds: 
  Such tokens and such trophies crown thy name.

X

THOMAS HEYWOOD

Tom, if they loved thee best who called thee Tom,
  What else may all men call thee, seeing thus bright
  Even yet the laughing and the weeping light
That still thy kind old eyes are kindled from? 
Small care was thine to assail and overcome
  Time and his child Oblivion:  yet of right
  Thy name has part with names of lordlier might
For English love and homely sense of home,
Whose fragrance keeps thy small sweet bayleaf young