SONG

PHOEBUS arise,
And paint the sable Skies
With azure, white, and red:
Rowse Memmons Mother from her Tythons bed,
That she thy Careere may with Roses spread,
The Nightingales thy comming each where sing,
Make an eternall spring.
Give life to this darke World which l…eth dead.
Spread forth thy golden haire
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And Emperour-like decore
With Diadem of Pearle thy Temples faire:
Chase hence the ugly Night
Which serves but to make deare thy glorious Light.
This is that happy Morne,
That day, long-wished day,
Of all my life so darke,
(If cruell Stars have not my ruine sworne,
And Fates my hopes betray)
Which (purely white) deserves
An everlasting Diamond should it marke.
This is the Morne should bring unto this Grove
My Love, to heare, and recompence my love.
Faire King, who all preserves,
But show thy blushing Beams,
And thou two sweeter Eyes
Shall see then those which by Peneus Streames
Did once thy heart surprise:
Nay, Suns which shine as cleare
As thou when two thou did'st to Rome appeare.
Now Flora decke thy selfe in fairest guise,
If that ye Winds would heare
A voice surpassing far Amphions lyre,
Your furious chiding stay,
Let Zephire only breathe,
And with her Tresses play,
Kissing sometimes those purple ports of Death,
The Winds all silent are,
And Phoebus in his chaire
Ensaffraning Sea and Aire,
Makes vanish every Star:
Night like a drunkard reeles
Beyond the Hills to shun his flaming Wheeles.
The Fields with flow'rs are deckt in every hue,
The Clouds with Orient Gold spangle their blew:
Here is the pleasant place,
And nothing wanting is save She alas.