Stay Phoebus , stay,
The world to which you flie so fast,
Conveying day
From us to them, can pay your hast,
With no such object, nor salute your rise
With no such wonder, as de Mornay's eyes.

Well do's this prove,
The error of those antique books
Which made you move,
About the world; her charming looks
Would fix your beams, and make it ever day,
Did not the rowling Earth snatch her away.