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 Who still with counterfeit confusion prates Nought but news common to the common'st mates.— This told, strange Teras touch'd her lute, and sung This ditty, that the torchy evening sprung.

Come, come, dear Night! Love's mart of kisses! Sweet close of his ambitious line, The fruitful summer of his blisses, Love's glory doth in darkness shine. O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night! Come, naked virtue's only tire, The reaped harvest of the light, Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire. Love calls to war,— Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms.

Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand On glorious Day's outfacing face; And all thy crowned flames command, For torches to our nuptial grace.