George Chapman

Bridal Song

O COME, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
    Come, naked Virtue's only tire,
The reaped 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 crowned flames command
    For torches to our nuptial grace.
        Love calls to war:
            Sighs his alarms,
        Lips his swords are,
            The field his arms.