They that in course of heavenly spheares are skild
To every planet point his sundry yeare,
In which her circles voyage is fulfild:
As Mars in threescore yeares doth run his spheare.
So, since the winged god his planet cleare
Began in me to move, one yeare is spent;
The which doth longer unto me appeare,
Then al those fourty which my life out-went.
Then, by that count which lovers books invent,
The spheare of Cupid fourty yeares containes,
Which I have wasted in long languishment,
That seem’d the longer for my greater paines.
But let my Loves fayre planet short her wayes
This yeare ensuing, or else short my dayes.
[Footnote: LX. 4.—_As Mars in three score yeares_. I do not understand
Spenser’s astronomy. C.]