Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes:

With everything that pretty is,

My lady sweet, arise.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Cymbeline. Act ii. Sc. 3.

O Proserpina,

For the flowers now, that frighted thou let'st fall

From Dis's waggon! daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,

But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes

Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,

That die unmarried, ere they can behold

Bright Phoebus in his strength,—a malady

Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and

The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flower-de-luce being one.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Winter's Tale. Act iv. Sc. 4.

Oh, Amos Cottle! Phoebus! what a name!

Lord Byron 1788-1824: English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 399.