But if he shine all solitarie, alone,
What mark is left,? what aimed scope or end
Of his existence? wherefore every one
Hath a due number of dim Orbs that wend
Around their centrall fire. But wrath will rend
This strange composure back’d with reason stout
And rasher tongues right speedily will spend
Their forward censure, that my wits run out
On wool-gathering, through infinite spaces all about.