Our bodies are but thick clouds to our soules,
Through which they cannot shine when they desire.
When all the starres, and even the sunne himselfe,80
Must stay the vapours times that he exhales
Before he can make good his beames to us,
O how can we, that are but motes to him,
Wandring at random in his ordered rayes,
Disperse our passions fumes, with our weak labours,85
That are more thick and black than all earths vapours?
Enter Mont[surry].