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NEw doth the Sun appeare,
The Mountaines Snows decay,
Crown'd with fraile flow'rs forth comes the Infant yeare;
My Soule, Time posts away,
And thou yet in that frost
Which Flow'r and fruit hath lost,
As if all here immortall were dost stay:
For shame thy Powers awake,
Look to that Heaven which never Night makes blacke,
And there at that immortall Suns bright Raies,
Deck thee with Flow'rs which feare not rage of Daies.