loathed jaylor of the lock'd up sun,
tyrant-turnkey on committed day,
Bright eyes lye
fettered in thy dungeon,
And Heaven it self doth thy
dark wards obey.
Thou dost arise our living hell;
With thee grones, terrors, furies dwell;
LUCASTA doth awake,
And with her beams these heavy
chaines off shake.
Behold! with opening her
Bright eyes break rowling, and with
And captive day his chariot mounted
Night to her proper hell is beat,
to her ebon seat;
Till th' Earth with play oppressed
And drawes again the curtains of her eyes.
But, bondslave, I know neither day nor night;
Whether she murth'ring sleep, or saving wake;
broyl'd ith' zone of her reflected light,
my isicles, not sinews shake.
Smile then, new Nature,
your soft blast
Doth melt our ice, and fires waste;
Whil'st the scorch'd shiv'ring world new born
feels it all the day one rising morn.