I’ll borrow Phœbus’ fiery jades,
With which about the world he trades
And put them in my plough.
I’ll to great Jove, hap good, hap ill,
Though he with thunder threat to kill,
And beg of him a boon.
To swerve up one of Cynthia’s beams,
And there to bathe thee in the streams
Discover’d in the moon....
And to those indraughts I’ll thee bring,