text: O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
         Come, naked Virtues 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 fields his arms.
  
  Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
      On glorious Days outfacing face;
  And all thy crowned flames command
      For torches to our nuptial grace.
         Love calls to war:
               Sighs his alarms,
         Lips his swords are,
               The field his arms.