Epithalamion Teratos.

Come, come, dear Night! Love's mart of kisses,

Sweet close to his ambitious line,

The fruitful summer of his blisses!

Love's glory doth in darkness shine.430

O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!

Come, naked Virtue's only tire,

The reapèd harvest of the light,

Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire!

Love calls to war;