How know you that the orbs doe move;
With musicke too? since heard of none?
And I will answer why I love.
'Tis not thy vertues, each a starre
Which in thy soules bright spheare doe shine,
Shooting their beauties from a farre,
To make each gazers heart like thine:
Our vertues often Meteors are.
'Tis not thy face, I cannot spie
When Poets weepe some Virgins death,