Why should your faire Eyes with such sou’raigne grace
Disperse their Rayes on eu’ry vulgar Spirit,
Whilst I in darkenesse, in the selfe-same place,
Get not one glance, to recompense my Merit?
So doth the Plow-man gaze the wand’ring Starre,
And onely rest contented with the Light,
That neuer learn’d what Constellations are,
Beyond the bent of his vnknowing Sight.
O, why should Beautie (Custome to obey)
To their grosse Sense apply her selfe so ill!
Would God I were as ignorant as they,
When I am made vnhappy by my skill;
Onely compell’d on this poore good to boast,
Heau’ns are not kind to them, that know them most.