Anonymous

WHAT poor astronomers are they,

Take women’s eyes for stars!

And set their thoughts in battle ’ray,

To fight such idle wars;

When in the end they shall approve,

’Tis but a jest drawn out of Love.

And Love itself is but a jest

Devised by idle heads,

To catch young Fancies in the nest,

And lay them in fool’s beds;

That being hatched in beauty’s eyes

They may be fledged ere they be wise.

But yet it is a sport to see,

How Wit will run on wheels;

While Will cannot persuaded be,

With that which Reason feels,

That women’s eyes and stars are odd

And Love is but a feignèd god.

But such as will run mad with Will,

I cannot clear their sight

But leave them to their study still,

To look where is no light,

Till, time too late, we make them try,

They study false Astronomy.