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 three score 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 outwent. Then, by that count which lovers books invent, The spheare of Cupid fourty yeares containes: Which I have wasted in long languishment, That seemd the longer for my greater paines. But let my loves fayre planet short her wayes This yeare ensuing, or else short my dayes. |