Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,

Till civil-suited Morn appear,

Not trick'd and frounc'd, as she was wont

With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kerchef'd in a comely cloud,

While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or usher'd with a shower still,

When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,

With minute drops from off the eaves.

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