The lark now leaves his watery nest,
And climbing shakes his dewy wings;
He takes your window for the East,
And to implore your light, he sings:
Awake, awake! the morn will never rise
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are
Who look for day before his mistress wakes:
Awake, awake! break through your veils of lawn;
Then draw your
curtains, and begin the dawn
Sir William Davenant
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