LAllegro

Come, and trip it as you go, On the light fantastic toe; And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring Of Arcadia to my view: And, nymphs, take heed, if aught you do Touch the tender fringes of my eye, Like the soft touch of hyacinthine hair. Then to the smooth green covert come, Where the murmuring streams run dry, And the morn in russet mantle clad Walks o'er the dew of yon high mountain. And from the morn a thousand blest Divine images arrive, And the sun, rising, sees them rise, And the world, waking, sees them rise. Or if the clouds that load the skies Fare far apart, bring on their gods, And the morn in russet mantle clad Walks o'er the dew of yon high mountain. And from the morn a thousand blest Divine images arrive, And the sun, rising, sees them rise, And the world, waking, sees them rise. Then to the well-trod stage anew With a thousand souls to start, And the morn in russet mantle clad Walks o'er the dew of yon high mountain. And from the morn a thousand blest Divine images arrive, And the sun, rising, sees them rise, And the world, waking, sees them rise. Or if the air will not permit To visit still the open air, And the morn in russet mantle clad Walks o'er the dew of yon high mountain. And from the morn a thousand blest Divine images arrive, And the sun, rising, sees them rise, And the world, waking, sees them rise. Or if it rain, look till you see The clouds of musick fill the skies, And the morn in russet mantle clad Walks o'er the dew of yon high mountain. And from the morn a thousand blest Divine images arrive, And the sun, rising, sees them rise, And the world, waking, sees them rise. Then to the well-trod stage anew With a thousand souls to start, And the morn in russet mantle clad Walks o'er the dew of yon high mountain. And from the morn a thousand blest Divine images arrive, And the sun, rising, sees them rise, And the world, waking, sees them rise. And now good-morrow to our wakes! They sleep that ever did affect More than they seem, and dream themselves To death; whilst I, awake and alive, Do feast upon the morning's breath, And drink the air, and hear the birds.