Ph?bus, arise, 
 And paint the sable skies 
 With azure, white, and red; 
 Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed 
 That she thy career may with roses spread; 
 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, 
 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 wished day 
 Of all my life so dark, 
 (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, 
 And fates not hope betray) 
 Which, only white, deserves 
 A diamond forever 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 Peneus' streams 
 Did once thy heart surprise; 
 Nay, suns, which shine as clear 
 As thou when two thou did to Rome appear. 
 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 
 And with her tresses play, 
 Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death. 
 The winds all silent are, 
 And Ph?bus 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 flow'rs are deck'd in every hue, 
 The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue; 
 Here is the pleasant place, 
 And ev'ry thing save her, who all should grace.