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 heav'nly 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 languish'd grace
 To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
 Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
 Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
 Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
 Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet
 Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
 Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?