The Close of the Masque

Come away, away, away!
See the dawning of the day,
Risen from the murmuring streams;
Some stars show with sickly beams,
What stock of flame they are allowed,
Each retiring to a cloud;
Bid your active sports adieu,
The morning else will blush for you.
Ye feather-footed hours run
To dress the chariot of the sun;
Harness the steeds, it quickly will
Be time to mount the eastern hill.
The lights grow pale with modest fears,
Lest you offend their sacred ears
And eyes, that lent you all this grace;
Retire, retire, to your own place.
And as you move from that blest pair,
Let each heart kneel, and think a prayer,
That all that can make up the glory
Of good and great may fill their story.