Ah when will this long weary day haue end, And lende me leaue to come vnto my loue? How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend? How slowly does sad Time his feathers moue? Hast thee O fayrest Planet to thy home Within the Westerne fome: Thy tyred steedes long since haue need of rest. Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, And the bright euening star with golden creast Appeare out of the East. Fayre childe of beauty, glorious lampe of loue That all the host of heauen in rankes doost lead, And guydest louers through the nights dread, How chearefully thou lookest from aboue, And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light As ioying in the sight Of these glad many which for ioy doe sing, That all the woods them answer and their echo ring.