Rolling downward, through the midnight,
Comes a glorious burst of heav-nly song;
-Tis a chorus full of sweetness-
And the singers are an angel throng. ...
Hence vain deluding joyes,
The brood of folly without father bred,
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toyes;
Dwell in som idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,
... Read complete poem
