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THE GOLDEN POMP
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phæbus 'gins arise,
On chaliced flowers that lies;
To ope their golden eyes :
Pack clouds, away, and welcome, day !
With night we banish sorrow.
To give my Love good-morrow !
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow :
To give my Love good-morrow
Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast,
Sing birds in every furrow,
Give my fair Love good-morrow!
Stare,1 linnet, and cocksparrow,
To give my Love good-morrow,
WHILST IT IS PRIME Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are display'd All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring
In goodly colours gloriously array'd,Go to my Love, where she is careless laid
Yet in her Winter's bower not well awake : Tell her the joyous time will not be stay'd Unless she do him by the fore-lock take:
Bid her therefore herself soon ready make
To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew : Where every one that misseth then her make,1
Shall be by him amerced with penance due. Make haste therefore, sweet Love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.
PHæBus, arise ! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red ; Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, That she thy carriere 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