The draught that so intoxicates them both,
That, while upon the wings of Day and Night
Time rustles on, and Moons do wax and wane,
As from the very Well of Life they drink,
And, drinking, fancy they shall never drain.
But rolling Heaven from His ambush whispers,
So in my licence is it not set down:
Ah for the sweet societies I make
At Morning, and before the Nightfall break;
Ah for the bliss that coming Night fills up,