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1560-1634
O COME, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
Come, naked Virtues only tire,
The reapàed 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 Days outfacing face;
And all thy crownàed flames command
For torches to our nuptial grace.
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The field his arms.
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