I.

Sweet serene skye-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower;
From thy long clowdy bed
Shoot forth thy damaske head.

II.

New-startled blush of Flora!
The griefe of pale Aurora,
Who will contest no more,
Haste, haste, to strowe her floore.

III.

Vermilion ball, that's given
From lip to lip in Heaven;
Loves couches cover-led,
Haste, haste, to make her bed.

IV.

Dear offspring of pleas'd Venus,
And jollie plumpe Silenus;
Haste, haste, to decke the haire,
Of th' only sweetly faire.

V.

See! rosie is her bower,
Her floore is all this flower;
Her bed a rosie nest
By a bed of roses prest.

VI.

But early as she dresses,
Why fly you her bright tresses?
Ah! I have found, I feare;
Because her cheekes are neere.