With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’s the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrow 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 languished grace,
To me, that feel the like, thy state decries.
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 that possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
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