Sonnet 20: Fly, Fly, My Friends
Fly,
fly,
my
friends,
I
have
my
death
wound;
fly!
See
there
that
boy,
that
murthering
boy
I
say,
Who
like
a
thief,
hid
in
dark
bush
doth
lie,
Till
bloody
bullet
get
him
wrongful
prey.
So
tyrant
he
no
fitter
place
could
spy,
Nor
so
fair
level
in
so
secret
stay,
As
that
sweet
black
which
veils
the
heav'nly
eye:
There
himself
with
his
shot
he
close
doth
lay.
Poor
passenger,
pass
now
thereby
I
did,
And
stayed
pleas'd
with
the
prospect
of
the
place,
While
that
black
hue
from
me
the
bad
guest
hid:
But
straight
I
saw
motions
of
lightning
grace,
And
then
descried
the
glist'ring
of
his
dart:
But
ere
I
could
fly
hence,
it
pierc'd
my
heart.