Without delays,

Who takes you by the hand, that you likewise

                                        With him may rise:

That, as his death fire burnt you to dust,

His life may make you gold, and much more, just.

Awake, my lute, and struggle for they part

                                        With all your art.

The cross taught all wood to resound his name,

                                        Who bore the same.

His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key

Is best to celebrate this most high day.

Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song

                                        Pleasant and long:

Or, since all music is but three parts vied

                                        And multiplied,

O let your blessed Spirit bear a part,

And make up our defects with his sweet art.

I got me boughs off many a tree:

But you were up by break of day,

And brought your sweets along with thee.

The Sun arising in the East,

Though he give light, & th' East perfume;

If they should offer to contest

With your arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,

Though many suns to shine endeavor?

We count three hundred, but we miss:

There is but one, and that one ever.