_To the Spheares_
Thou which do'st guide this little world of loue,
Thy planets mansions heere thou mayst behold,
My brow the spheare where _Saturne_ still doth moue,
Wrinkled with cares: and withered, dry, and cold;
Mine eyes the Orbe where _Iupiter_ doth trace,
Which gently smile because they looke on thee,
_Mars_ in my swarty visage takes his place,
Made leane with loue, where furious conflicts bee.
_Sol_ in my breast with his hote scorching flame,
And in my hart alone doth _Venus_ raigne:
_Mercury_ my hands the Organs of thy fame,
And _Luna_ glides in my fantastick braine;
The starry heauen thy prayse by me exprest,
Thou the first moouer, guiding all the rest.