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