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 Wit 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!