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With how sad
steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently,
and with how wan a face!
What! may it be that even in
heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows
tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case:
I
read it in thy looks; thy languished grace,
To me
that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then even of
fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deemed
there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as
here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do
they call virtue there ungratefulness?
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