ON A FOUL [OR, FOULE] MORNING [BEING THEN TO TAKE A JOURNEY] by RICHARD CRASHAW

Where art thou Sol, while thus the blind-fold Day
Staggers out of the East, looses her way
Stumbling on Night? Rouze thee Illustrious Youth,
And let no dull mists choake the Lights faire growth.
Point here thy Beames; o glance on yonder flockes,
And make their fleeces Golden as thy lockes.
Unfold thy faire front, and there shall appeare
Full glory, flaming in her owne free spheare.
Gladnesse shall cloath the Earth, we will instile
The face of things, an universall smile.
Say to the Sullen Morne, thou com'st to court her;
And wilt command proud Zephirus to sport her
With wanton gales: his balmy breath shall licke
The tender drops which tremble on her cheeke;
Which rarifyed, and in a gentle raine
On those delicious bankes distill'd againe
Shall rise in a sweet Harvest; which discloses
Two ever blushing beds of new-borne Roses.
Hee'l fan her bright locks, teaching them to flow
And friske in curl'd Maeanders: Hee will throw
A fragrant Breath suckt from the spicy nest
O'th pretious Phoenix, warme upon her Breast.
Hee with a dainty and soft hand, will trim
And brush her Azure Mantle, which shall swim
In silken Volumes; wheresoe're shee'l tread,
Bright clouds like Golden fleeces shall be spread.
Rise then (faire blew-ey'd Maid) rise and discover
Thy silver brow, and meet thy Golden lover.
See how hee runs, with what a hasty flight
Into thy Bosome, bath'd with liquid Light.
Fly, fly prophane fogs, farre hence fly away,
Taint not the pure streames of the springing Day,
With your dull influence, it is for you,
To sit and scoule upon Nights heavy brow;
Not on the fresh cheekes of the virgin Morne,
Where nought but smiles, and ruddy joyes are worne,
Fly then, and doe not thinke with her to stay;
Let it suffice, shee'l weare no maske to day.

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