| PHOEBUS, arise! | |
| And paint the sable skies | |
| With azure, white, and red; | |
| Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, | |
| That she thy càreer may with roses spread; | 5 |
| The nightingales thy coming each-where 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, | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| That day, long wishèd day | |
| Of all my life so dark | |
| (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn | |
| And fates not hope betray), | |
| Which, only white, deserves | 20 |
| A diamond for ever should it mark: | |
| This is the morn should bring into this grove | |
| My Love, to hear and recompense my love. | |
| Fair King, who all preserves, | |
| But show thy blushing beams, | 25 |
| And thou two sweeter eyes | |
| Shalt see than those which by Penèus' streams | |
| Did once thy heart surprise: | |
| Nay, suns, which shine as clear | |
| As thou when two thou did to Rome appear. | 30 |
| Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: | |
| If that ye, winds, would hear | |
| A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, | |
| Your stormy chiding stay; | |
| Let zephyr only breathe | 35 |
| And with her tresses play, | |
| Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death. | |
| |
| The winds all silent are; | |
| And Phoebus in his chair | |
| Ensaffroning sea and air | 40 |
| 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 bespangle with bright gold their blue: | 45 |
| Here is the pleasant place— | |
| And everything, save Her, who all should grace. | |
