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Ad Auroram ne properet

Now on the sea from her old love comes shee,
That drawes the day from heavens cold axletree.
Aurora whither slidest thou? downe againe,
And birds for Memnon yearly shall be slaine.
Now in her tender armes I sweetly bide,
If ever, now well lies she by my side.
The aire is colde, and sleepe is sweetest now,
And birdes send forth shrill notes from everie bow.
Whither runst thou, that men, and women, love not?
Hold in thy rosie horses that they move not.
Ere thou rise starres teach seamen where to saile,
But when thou comest they of their courses faile.
Poore travailers though tierd, rise at thy sight,
And souldiours make them ready to the fight,
The painfull Hinde by thee to field is sent,
Slow oxen early in the yoake are pent.
Thou coosnest boyes of sleepe, and dost betray them
To Pedants, that with cruell lashes pay them.
Thou makste the suretie to the lawyer runne,
That with one worde hath nigh himselfe undone,
The lawier and the client hate thy view,
Both whom thou raisest up to toyle anew.
By thy meanes women of their rest are bard,
Thou setst their labouring hands to spin and card.
All could I beare, but that the wench should rise,
Who can indure, save him with whom none lies?
How oft wisht I night would not give thee place,
Nor morning starres shunne thy uprising face.
How oft, that either wind would breake thy coche,
Or steeds might fal forcd with thick clouds approch.
Whither gost thou hateflil nimph? Memnon the elfe
Received his cole-blacke colour from thy selfe.
Say that thy love with Coephalus were not knowne,
Then thinkest thou thy loose life is not showne?
Would Tithon might but talke of thee a while,
Not one in heaven should be more base and vile.
Thou leav'st his bed, because hees faint through age,
And early mountest thy hatefull carriage:
But heldst thou in thine armes some Coephalus,
Then wouldst thou cry, stay night and runne not thus.
Punish ye, because yeares make him waine?
I did not bid thee wed an aged swaine.
The Moone sleepes with Endemion everie day,
Thou art as faire as shee, then kisse and play.
Jove that thou shouldst not hast but wait his leasure,
Made two nights one to finish up his pleasure.
I chid no more, she blusht, and therefore heard me,
Yet lingered not the day, but morning scard me.

load focus Latin (R. Ehwald, 1907)
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