Thomas Middleton: IX

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.