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!