’Tis, I believe, this archery to show,
That so much cost in colours thou
And skill in painting dost bestow 15
Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heavenly bow.
Swift as light thoughts their empty carriere run,
Thy race is finished when begun;
Let a post-angel start with thee,
And thou the goal of earth shalt reach as soon as he. 20
Thou in the moon’s bright chariot proud and gay
Dost thy bright wood of stars survey;