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THE star, that bids the shepherd fold,
Now the top of heaven doth hold;
His glowing axle doth allay
And the slope Sun his upward beam
Of his chamber in the east.
Braid your locks with rosy twine
And Advice with scrupulous head;
Strict Age and sour Severity,
With their grave saws in slumber lie.
We that are of purer fire
Imitate the starry quire,
Who in their nightly watchful spheres
Lead in swift round the months and years.