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O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night! Come, naked Virtue's only tire, The reapéd harvest of the light Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire. Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms. Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand On glorious Day's outfacing face; And all thy crownéd flames command For torches to our nuptial grace. Love calls to war: Sighs his alarms, Lips his swords are, The field his arms. |