Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty
Who doth the world so gloriously behold
That cedar-tops and hills seem burnishd gold.
Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow:
O thou clear god, and patron of all light,
From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
The beauteous influence that makes him bright,
There lives a son that suckd an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.