XXX.
Whether the Turkish new moon minded be
To fill his horns this year on Christian coast?
How Ioles' right King means, without leave of host
To warm with ill-made fire, cold Muscovy?
If French can yet three parts in one agree?
What now the Dutch in their full diets boast?
How Holland's hearts—now so good towns be lost—
Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree?
How Ulster likes of that same golden bit,
Wherewith my father once made it half tame?
If in the Scotch Court be no welt'ring yet?
These questions, busy wits to me do frame:
I—cumbered with good manners—answer do;
But know not how, for still I think on you.
XXXI.
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 languisht 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?
