In night when colors all to black are cast,
Distinction lost, or gone down with the light;
The eye a watch to inward senses placed,
Not seeing, yet still having powers of sight,

Gives vain alarums to the inward sense,
Where fear stirred up with witty tyranny,
Confounds all powers, and thorough self-offense,
Doth forge and raise impossibility:

Such as in thick depriving darknesses,
Proper reflections of the error be,
And images of self-confusednesses,
Which hurt imaginations only see;

And from this nothing seen, tells news of devils,
Which but expressions be of inward evils.

  — by Lord Brooke Fulke Greville


     The Hag is astride,
     This night for to ride;
The Devill and shee together:
     Through thick, and through thin,
     Now out, and then in,
Though ne’r so foule be the weather.

     A Thorn or a Burr
     She takes for a Spurre:
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,
     Through Brakes and through Bryars,
     O’re Ditches, and Mires,
She followes the Spirit that guides now.

     No Beast, for his food,
     Dares now range the wood;
But husht in his laire he lies lurking:
     While mischiefs, by these,
     On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are working,

     The storme will arise,
     And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
     The ghost from the Tomb
     Affrighted shall come,
Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder.

  — Robert Herrick (1591 – 1674), English Poet.