Wing'd with delight (yet such as still doth beare
Chaste vertues stamp) those Children of the yeere
The dayes, haste nimbly; and while as they flie,
Each of them with their predecessors vie,
Which yeelds most pleasure; you to them dispence,
What Time lost with his cradle, innocence.
So I (if fancie not delude my sight,)
See often the pale monarch of the night,
Diana, 'mong her nimphs. For every quire