With how sad steps ô Moone thou clim’st the skyes,
How silently, and with how meane a face,
What may it be, that even in heavenly place,
That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes?
Sure if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feelst of Lovers case,
I reade within thy lookes thy languisht grace.
To mee that feele the like, my state discries.
Then even of fellowship ô Moone tell me,
Is constant love deemde there but want of wit?
Are beauties there, as proude as here there be?
Doe they above, love to be lov’d, and yet
Those Lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse?
Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse?