Yet once he ranged the open heavens, The sun’s bright pathway tracked; Watched how the cold moon waxed and waned; Nor rested, till there lacked To his wide ken no star that steers Amid the maze of circling spheres.

The causes why the blusterous winds Vex ocean’s tranquil face, Whose hand doth turn the stable globe, Or why his even race From out the ruddy east the sun Unto the western waves doth run:

What is it tempers cunningly The placid hours of spring, So that it blossoms with the rose For earth’s engarlanding: Who loads the year’s maturer prime With clustered grapes in autumn time: