O COME, soft rest of cares! come, Night! 
   Come, naked Virtue's only tire, 
The reaped harvest of the light 
   Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire. 
   Love calls to war: 
   Sighs his alarms, 
   Lips his swords are, 
   The field his arms. 

Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand 
   On glorious Day's outfacing face; 
And all thy crowned flames command 
   For torches to our nuptial grace. 
   Love calls to war: 
   Sighs his alarms, 
   Lips his swords are, 
   The field his arms.