The thoughts and troubles of broad waking day

They softly dip in mild oblivion's lake.

FAIRFAX.

Now the world's comforter with weary gait,

His day's hot task hath ended in the west;

The owl (Night's herald) shrieks; 'tis very late,

The sheep are gone to fold, the birds to nest,

The cool black clouds that shadow heaven's light

Do summon us to part and bid good night.