HYMN I.
Of Astræa.
E arly, before the day doth spring,
L et us awake, my Muse! and sing!
I t is no time to slumber!
S o many joys this Time doth bring,
A s time will fail to number.
B ut, whereto shall we bend our Lays?
E ven up to heaven, again to raise
T he Maid! which, thence descended,
H ath brought again the Golden Days
A nd all the world amended.
R udeness itself, She doth refine!
E ven like an Alchemist divine,
G ross Times of Iron turning
I nto the purest form of Gold;
N ot to corrupt, till heaven wax old
A nd be refined with burning.