Lo, in my Faire each of the Planets raignes:
She is as Saturne, euer graue and wise,
And as Ioues thunderbolts, her thundring eyes
Do plague the pride of men with endlesse paines:
Her voyce is as Apollo's, and her head
Is euer garnish'd with his golden beames,
And ô her heart, which neuer fancie tames:
More fierce then Mars makes thousands to lie dead.
From Mercurie her eloquence proceeds,
Of Venus she the sweetnesse doth retaine,
Her face still full doth Phœbe's lightnesse staine,
Whom likewise she in Chastitie exceeds.
No wonder then though this in me doth moue,
To such a diuine soule, a diuine loue.