Thy rise brings labour to the female band,And puts the spindle in the spinster's hand:Light are these toils, and little is the painTo rise to work, and rest at night again;But who that e'er knew love's transporting joys,Could from the arms of youth and beauty rise?Oft have I wish'd that night would keep her ground,And all her stars be at thy rising found;Oft have I wish'd the winds would stop thy way,Repel thy car, or clouds involve the day.Dost thou in envy lash each lazy steed,And whirl thy chariot with unwonted speed?Black was thy son, and in his hue's express'dThe gloomy passions of his parent's breats;He, born of Cephalus, his ravish'd sire,Is a known proof of thy adult'rous fire.Thou, by his colour, wouldst thy crime conceal;Ah, that to Tithon I the tale could tell!Search all the records of Heaven's lechers round,A fouler story cannot there be found.