Book VIII, Epigram 21: Ad Luciferum

Phosphor produce the day: why dost delay
Our joys? lo, Caesar comes, produce the day.
Rome begs it. What slow Chariot carryes thee?
What signe? that thy sweet rayes retarded bee?
Take Cyllaron from the Ledaean Star,
Castor himself will lend his Horse for war,
Why dost rein in the forward eager Sun?
Apollo's Courser with their harness on,
Aurora waites: but yet the spangled night
Will not give room to the more glorious light,
Diana longs to see the Ausonian king,
Come Caesar, though in night, thy presence bring:
For though the Stars their revolution stay,
Thee coming we shall never want a day.