Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Call us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom, extracting liquid sweet.

In: Great Books of the Western World (Volume 32), Paradise Lost, Book V, l. 20-25