arly before the day doth spring|
et us awake, my Muse, and sing,
t is no time to slumber:
o many joys this time doth bring
s time will fail to number.
ut whereto shall we bend our lays?
ven up to heaven, again to raise
he maid which, thence descended,
ath brought again the golden days
nd all the world amended.
udenesse it self she doth refine,
ven like an alchemist divine,
ross times of iron turning
nto the purest form of gold,
ot to corrupt till heaven wax old,
nd be refined with burning.