A Morning Song
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings.
And Phœbus ‘gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise:
Arise, arise!
William Shakespeare.
From “Cymbeline.”