O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
Come, naked Virtues only tire,
The reapèd harvest of the light
Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire,
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The fields his arms.
Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
On glorious Days outfacing face;
And all they crownèd flames command
For torches to our nuptial grace.
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his words are,
The field his arms.
