[Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career],

Till [civil-suited Morn] appear,

Not tricked and frounced, [as she was wont]

[With the Attic boy to hunt,]

But [kerchieft] in a comely cloud, 125

While [rocking winds] are piping loud

[Or ushered with a shower still],

When the gust hath blown his fill,

Ending on the rustling leaves,

[With minute-drops from off the eaves]. 130