But all in vain; the moisture we bestow
Shall make as soon her curled marble grow,
As render heat or motion to that blood,
Which through her veins branch't like an azure flood;
Whose now still current in the grave is lost,
40Lock'd up, and fetter'd by eternal frost.
Desist from hence, doting Astrology!
To search for hidden wonders in the sky;
Or from the concourse of malignant stars,
Foretell diseases, gen'ral as our wars: