More by your number than your lighte,
Like common people of the skies,
What are yee, when the moone doth rise?
Ye violettes that first appeare,
Your pride in purple garments showne,
Takeing possession of the yeere
As if the spring were all your owne,
What are you when the rose is blowne?
Ye glorious trifles of the East,
Whose lustres estimations raise,