Phoebus, arise!
     And paint the sable skies
     With azure, white, and red:
     Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed
     That she may thy career with roses spread:
     The nightingales thy coming eachwhere sing:
     Make an eternal spring!
     Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
     Spread forth thy golden hair
     In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
     And emperor-like decore
     With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
     Chase hence the ugly night
     Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

     —This is that happy morn,
     That day, long wishéd day
     Of all my life so dark,
     (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
     And fates not hope betray),
     Which, purely white, deserves
     An everlasting diamond should it mark.
     This is the morn should bring unto this grove
     My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
     Fair King, who all preserves,
     But show thy blushing beams,
     And thou two sweeter eyes
     Shalt see than those which by Penéus' streams
     Did once thy heart surprize.
     Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
     If that ye winds would hear
     A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
     Your furious chiding stay;
     Let Zephyr only breathe
     And with her tresses play.
     —The winds all silent are,
     And Phoebus in his chair
     Ensaffroning sea and air
     Makes vanish every star:
     Night like a drunkard reels
     Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
     The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
     The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
     Here is the pleasant place—
     And nothing wanting is, save She, alas.