Perhapps the threatninge weather kept him backe: Itt was a trobled skye, the soon set blusheing, The rack cam swiftly rushing from the west; And these presadges of a future storme, Unwillinge for to trust her tendernes Unto such feares, might make him fayle his hower; And yet with purpose what hee slack't last night Howe to make goodd this morninge.