Do all thy winged arrows fly?
Swiftness and power by birth are thine,
From thy great fire they came, thy fire the word divine.

V.

'Tis I believe this archery to shew
That so much cost in colours thou,
And skill in painting dost bestow,
Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heav'nly bow.

VI.

Swift as light, thoughts their empty career run,
Thy race is finish'd, when begun;
Let a Post-Angel start with thee,
And thou the goal of earth shall reach as soon as he.

VII.

Thou in the moon's bright chariot proud and gay,
Dost thy bright wood of stars survey;
And all the year doth with thee bring
O thousand flowry lights, thine own nocturnal spring.

VIII.

Thou Scythian-like dost round thy lands above
The sun's gilt tent for ever move,
And still as thou in pomp dost go,