NIGHT.
Now from the fresh, the soft, and tender bed,
Of her still mother gentle Night outflew
The fleeting balm on hills and dales she shed,
With honey drops of pure and precious dew,
And on the verdure of green forests spread,
The virgin primrose and the violet blue;
And sweet breath Zephyr on his spreading wings
Sleep, ease, repose, rest, peace and quiet brings.
The thoughts and troubles of broad waking day
They softly dip in mild oblivion's lake.
FAIRFAX.
Now the world's comforter with weary gait,
His day's hot task hath ended in the west;
The owl (Night's herald) shrieks; 'tis very late,
The sheep are gone to fold, the birds to nest,
The cool black clouds that shadow heaven's light
Do summon us to part and bid good night.
SHAKSPEARE.