A cluster of them makes not half a Moon,
What should such tennis-balls do in the skie?
And few ’ll not figure out the fashion
Of those round firie meteors on high.
Ne ought their beards much move us, that do lie
Ever cast forward from the Morning sunne,
Nor back cast tayls turn’d to our Evening-eye,
That fair appear when as the day is done.
This matter may lie hid in the starres shadowed Cone.