CXXXIX.

But up she got, and up she made them get, With some pretence about the Sun, that makes Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set; And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet With mist, and every bird with him awakes, And night is flung off like a mourning suit Worn for a husband,--or some other brute.[bm]