The Purple Island
The early morn lets out the peeping day,
And strewed his path with golden marygolds;
The moon grows wanne, and starres flie all away,
Whom Lucifer locks up in wonted folds,
Till light is quencht, and heav'n in seas hath flung
The headlong day : to th' hill the shepherd's throng,
And Thirsil now began to end his task and song.