Now when the rosy-fingred Morning[°] faire,
Weary of aged Tithones[°] saffron bed,
Had spread her purple robe through deawy aire,
And the high hils Titan[°] discovered,
The royall virgin shooke off drowsy-hed;
And rising forth out of her baser bowre,
Lookt for her knight, who far away was fled,
And for her Dwarfe, that wont to wait each houre:
Then gan she waile and weepe, to see that woefull stowre.