The little world the subject of my muse,

Is an huge task and labour infinite;

Like to a wilderness or masse confuse,

Or to an endless gulf, or to the night,

How many strange Meanders doe I find?

How many paths do turne my straying pen?

How many doubtful twilights make me blind,

Which seek to lim out this strange All of men?

Easy it were the earth to portray out,

Or to draw forth the heaven’s purest frame,

Whose restless course, by order whirls about

Of change and place, and still remains the same,

But how shall men’s, or manner’s form appear,

Which while I write, do change from that they were?