With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face,
What may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure if that long with Love acquainted eyes
Can judge of Love, though feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace
To me that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me
Is constant Love deemed there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Thos lovers scorn whom that Love doth possess?
Do they call Virtue there ungratefulness?