To the Morning: Satisfaction for Sleepe

What succour can I hope my Muse shall sendWhose drowsinesse hath wrong'd the Muses' friend?What hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee,Vnlesse the Muse sing my apologie?O in that morning of my shame! when ILay folded up in Sleepe's captivity,How at the sight did'st thou draw back thine eyes,Into thy modest veyle? how didst thou riseTwice dy'd in thine owne blushes! and did'st runTo draw the curtaines, and awake the sun!Who, rowzing his illustrious tresses, came,And seeing the loath'd object, hid for shameHis head in thy faire bosome, and still hidesMee from his patronage; I pray, he chides:And pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me takeMy owne Apollo, try if I can makeHis Lethe be my Helicon: and seeIf Morpheus have a Muse to wait on mee.Hence 'tis, my humble fancie finds no wings,No nimble rapture starts to Heaven, and bringsEnthusiasticke flames, such as can giveMarrow to my plumpe genius, make it liveDrest in the glorious madnesse of a Muse,Whose feet can walke the milky way, and chuseHer starry throne; whose holy heats can warmeThe grave, and hold up an exalted armeTo lift me from my lazy vrne, to climbeVpon the stooped shoulders of old Time,And trace Eternity--But all is dead,All these delicious hopes are buriedIn the deepe wrinckles of his angry brow,Where Mercy cannot find them: but O thouBright lady of the Morne! pitty doth lyeSo warme in thy soft brest, it cannot dye.Have mercy then, and when he next shall riseO meet the angry God, invade his eyes,And stroake his radiant cheekes; one timely kisseWill kill his anger, and revive my blisse.So to the treasure of thy pearly deaw,Thrice will I pay three teares, to show how trueMy griefe is; so my wakefull lay shall knockeAt th' orientall gates, and duly mockeThe early larkes' shrill orizons, to beAn anthem at the Daye's nativitie.And the same rosie-finger'd hand of thine,That shuts Night's dying eyes, shall open mine.But thou, faint God of Sleepe, forget that IWas ever known to be thy votary.No more my pillow shall thine altar be,Nor will I offer any more to theeMy selfe a melting sacrifice; I'me borneAgaine a fresh child of the buxome Morne,Heire of the sun's first beames. Why threat'st thou so?Why dost thou shake thy leaden scepter? goe,Bestow thy poppy upon wakefull Woe,Sicknesse, and Sorrow, whose pale lidds ne're knowThy downie finger; dwell upon their eyes,Shut in their teares: shut out their miseries.