It's all very fine, is it not, oh! ye Nine?
To tell us this planet is going too fast,
On a comet-like track through the wilderness vast:
Instead of collision, and chances of splitting
In contact with stars rushing down the wrong line,
The world at this moment can't get on—for sitting:
And Earth, like the Lady enchanted in Comus,
Fix'd fast to her chair
With a dignified air,
Is expecting to sit for a century there;