The star that bids the shepherd fold,
Now the top of Heav'n doth hold,
And the gilded car of day,
His glowing axle doth allay
In the deep Atlantic stream,
And the slope sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky pole,
Pacing toward the other goal
Of his chamber in the east.

Meanwhile welcome joy, and feast,
Now Phoebus sinketh in the west,
Welcome song and welcome jest,
Midnight shout, and revelry,
Tipsy dance, and Jollity.

Braid your locks with rosy twine
Dropping odours, dropping wine.
Rigour now is gone to bed,
And advice with scrupulous head,
Strict age, and sour severity,
With their grave saws in slumber lie.