XI. Upon triumphant chariot, ’passing rare

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

UPON triumphant chariot, ’passing rare,

(In which my Sun doth sit like Majesty:

And makes the day shew unto us more fair;

Whose cheerfulness delights each mortal eye.)

I, rash, like to another PHAETON,

With hare-brain haste, too hasty lept thereon.

But for my boldness dearly did I pay;

And had like plague, as he, for being o’er-brave:

Yet though in equal fortune both did stay

(For life he lost; and death She to me gave);

The punisher of both was not the same,

For he, by JOVE; and I, by LOVE; was slain.