For should our thanks awake the rising sun, }
And lengthen, as his latest shadows run, }
That, though the longest day, would soon, too soon be done. }
Let angels' voices with their harps conspire,
But keep the auspicious infant from the choir;
Late let him sing above, and let us know
No sweeter music than his cries below.
Nor can I wish to you, great monarch, more
Than such an annual income to your store;
The day, which gave this unit, did not shine