And leaves began to leave the shady tree,
The Winter cold encreased on full fast,
And time of year to sadness moved me:
For moisty blasts not half so mirthful be,
As sweet Aurora brings in Spring-time fair,
Our joys they dim as Winter damps the air.
The Nights began to grow to length apace,
Sir Phoebus to th'Antartique 'gan to fare:
From Libra's lance, to the Crab he took his race
Beneath the Line, to lend of light a share.