HARK, HARK, THE LARK

Hearke, hearke, the Larke at Heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His Steeds to water at those Springs

On chaliced Flowres that lyes:

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their Golden eyes:

With every thing that pretty is,

My Lady sweet, arise:

Arise, arise!

William Shakespeare