Classic Poem

Still herald of the morn, whose ray
Being page and usher to the day,
Doth mourn behind the sun, before him play;
Who sets a golden signal, ere
The bat retire, the lark appear,
The early cocks cry comfort, screech owls fear.

Who wink'st while lovers plight their troth,
Then falls asleep, while they are loth
To part without a more engaging oath:
Steal in a message to the eyes
Of Julia, tell her that she lies
Too long, thy lord the sun will quickly rise.

Yet is it midnight still with me,
Nay worse, unless that kinder she
Smile day, and in my zenith seated be.
But if she will obliquely run,
I needs a calenture must shun,
And like an Ethiopian hate my sun.