This day, old Time, doth turne his Annuall Glasse; And shakes it, that the Yeare may swiftly passe: This day; on which the formost leading-sand Falls from that Glasse, shooke by his hasty Hand: That Sand's th'exemplar Seed, by which wee know How th'Hou'rs of the ensuing Yeare will grow. Awake, great Queene! for as you hide, or cleere Your Eyes, wee shall distrust, or like the Yeare. Queenes set their Dialls by your beauties light; By your Eyes learne, to make their owne move right: Yet know, our expectation when you rise Is not intirely furnish'd from your Eyes; But wisely wee provide, how to rejoyce, In the fruition of your Breath, and Voyce: Your breath, which Nature the example meant, From whence our early Blossomes take their scent; Teaching our Infant-Flow'rs how to excell (Ere strong upon their stalks) in fragrant smell: Your voyce, which can allure, and charme the best Most gawdy-feather'd Chaunter of the East, To dwell about your Palace all the Spring, And still preserve him silent whilst you sing. Rise then! for I have heard Apollo sweare, By that first lustre, which did fill his Spheare; He will not mount, but make eternall Night, Unlesse releev'd, and cherish'd by your Sight: Your sight; which is his warmth, now he is old, His Horses weary, and his Chariot cold.
