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To the Moone.

he Moone, now Muses, teach me to resound,
Whose wide wings measure such a world of ground.
Ioues Daughter, deckt with the mellifluous Tongue;
And seene in All, the sacred Art of Song.
Whose deathles Brows, when shee from Heauen displaies,
All Earth she wraps vp, in her Orient Raies.
A Heauen of Ornament in Earth is rais'd,
When her Beames rise. The subt'le Ayre is sais'd
Of delicate splendor, from her Crowne of Gold;
And when her siluer Bosome is extoll'd,
Washt in the Ocean; In Daies equall'd Noone,
Is Mid-night seated: but when shee puts on
Her farr-off-sprinckling-Luster-Euening weedes;
(The Moneth in two cut: her high-brested Steedes,
Man'de All with curl'd flames; put in Coch and All,
Her huge Orb fill'd) her whole Trimms Then exhall
Vnspeakable splendors, from the glorious skie.

And