There is something in it remarkably fine.
PHOSPHOR, BRING THE DAY.
Will't ne'er be morning?
Will that promised light Ne'er break, and clear those clouds of night?
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day, Whose conquering ray May chase these fogs: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.
How long, how long shall these benighted eyes Languish in shades, like feeble flies Expecting spring?
How long shall darkness soil The face of earth, and thus beguile Our souls of sprightful action?
When, when will day Begin to dawn, whose new-born ray May gild the weathercocks of our devotion, And give our unsouled souls new motion?
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day: The light will fray These horrid mists: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.
* * * * * Let those whose eyes, like owls, abhor the light-- Let those have night that love the night: Sweet Phosphor, bring the day.
How sad delay Afflicts dull hopes! Sweet Phosphor, bring the day.
Alas! my light-in-vain-expecting eyes Can find no objects but what rise From this poor mortal blaze, a dying spark Of Vulcan's forge, whose flames are dark,-- A dangerous, dull, blue-burning light, As melancholy as the night: Here's all the suns that glister in the sphere Of earth: Ah me! what comfort's here! Sweet Phosphor, bring the day.
Haste, haste away Heaven's loitering lamp: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.
Blow, Ignorance.

O thou, whose idle knee Rocks earth into a lethargy, And with thy sooty fingers hast benight The world's fair cheeks, blow, blow thy spite; Since thou hast puffed our greater taper, do Puff on, and out the lesser too.
If e'er that breath-exiled flame return, Thou hast not blown as it will burn.
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day: Light will repay The wrongs of night: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.
With honoured, thrice honoured George Herbert waiting at the door, I cannot ask Francis Quarles to remain longer: I can part with him without regret, worthy man and fair poet as he is..