But, when the obiect of her vertue failed, Her power it selfe against it selfe did arme; As he that having long in tempest sailed Faine would arive, but cannot for the storme, If too great winde against the port him drive, Doth in the port it selfe his vessell rive.

So weak is Night that if our hand extend A glimmering torch, her shadows disappear, Leaving her dead; like frailest gossamere, Tinder and steel her mantle rive and rend.