Aubade

The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,

And climbing shakes his dewy wings.

He takes this window for the East,

And to implore your light he sings—

Awake, awake! the morn will never rise

Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,

The ploughman from the sun his season takes;

But still the lover wonders what they are

Who look for day before his mistress wakes.