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THOU in the moons bright chariot proud and gay | |
Dost thy bright wood of stars survey; | |
And all the year dost with thee bring | |
Of thousand flowry lights thine own nocturnal spring. | |
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Thou Scythian-like dost round thy lands above | 5 |
The suns gilt tent for ever move, | |
And still as thou in pomp dost go | |
The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. | |
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Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn | |
The humble glow-worms to adorn, | 10 |
And with those living spangles gild | |
(O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field. | |
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Night, and her ugly subjects thou dost fright, | |
And sleep, the lazy owl of night; | |
Ashamed and fearful to appear | 15 |
They screen their horrid shapes with the black hemisphere. | |
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With them there hastes, and wildly takes the alarm, | |
Of painted dreams a busy swarm, | |
At the first opening of thine eye, | |
The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly. | 20 |
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The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts, | |
Creep conscious to their secret rests: | |
Nature to thee does reverence pay, | |
Ill omens and ill sights removes out of thy way. | |
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At thy appearance, grief itself is said | 25 |
To shake his wings, and rouse his head, | |
And cloudy care has often took | |
A gentle beamy smile reflected from thy look. | |
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At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold; | |
Thy sunshine melts away his cold. | 30 |
Encouragd at the sight of thee, | |
To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee. | |
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When, goddess, thou liftst up thy wakend head | |
Out of the mornings purple bed, | |
Thy quire of birds about thee play, | 35 |
And all the joyful world salutes the rising day. | |
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All the worlds bravery that delights our eyes | |
Is but thy sevral liveries, | |
Thou the rich dye on them bestowest, | |
Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou goest. | 40 |
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A crimson garment in the rose thou wearst; | |
A crown of studded gold thou bearst, | |
The virgin lilies in their white, | |
Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light! | |
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