HYMNE X.
To the Moneth of September.
E ach moneth hath praise in some degree;
L et May to others seeme to be
I n sense the sweetest Season;
S eptember thou art best to me,
A nd best dost please my reason.
B ut neither for thy corne nor wine
E xtoll I those mild dayes of thine,
T hough corne and wine might praise thee;
H eauen giues thee honour more diuine,
A nd higher fortunes raise thee.
R enown'd art thou (sweet moneth) for this,
E mong thy dayes her birth-day is;[173]
G race, plenty, peace and honour
I n one faire hour with her were borne;
N ow since they still her crowne adorne,
A nd still attend vpon her.
HYMNE XI.
To the Sunne.
E ye of the world, fountaine of light,
L ife of Day, and death of Night;
I humbly seek thy kindnesse:
S weet, dazle not my feeble sight,
A nd strike me not with blindnesse.
B ehold me mildly from that face,
E uen where thou now dost run thy race,
T he spheare where now thou turnest;
H auing like Phaeton chang'd thy place,
A nd yet hearts onely burnest.