| The day’s grown old; |
| the fainting sun
|
| Has but a little way to run
|
| And yet his steeds, with all his skill
|
| Scarce lug the chariot down the hill
|
| The shadows now so long do grow
|
| That brambles like tall cedars show;
|
| Mole hills seem mountains, and the ant
|
| Appears a monstrous elephant
|
| A very little, little flock
|
| Shades thrice the ground that it would stock;
|
| Whilst the small stripling following them
|
| Appears a mighty Polypheme
|
| And now on benches all are sat
|
| In the cool air to sit and chat
|
| Till Phoebus, dipping in the west
|
| Shall lead the world the way to rest |