And if their kinds no man may reckon well,
The summe of successive particulars
No mind conceive nor tongue can ever tell.
And yet this mist of numbers (as appears)
Belongs to one of these opacous sphears.
Suppose this Earth; what then will all those Rounds
Produce? No Atlas such a load upbears.
In this huge endlesse heap o’rewhelmed, drownd,
Choak’d, stifled, lo! I lie, breathlesse, even quite confound.