da, mistress of my soul
da, mistres of my soul,
the measur'd time is run!
the wretch beh the dreary pole
so marks his test sun.
to what dark cave of frozen night
shall poor sylvander hie;
depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
the sun of all his joy?
we part—but by these precious drops,
that fill thy lovely eyes,
no ht shall guide my steps,
till thy bright beams arise!
she, the fair sun of all her sex,
has blest my glorious day;
and shall a glimmering p fix
my worship to its ray?