Epigram 5 (The little worlde the subiect of my muse,)

The little worlde the subiect of my muse,
Is an huge taske and labour infinite;
Like to a wildernesse or masse confuse,
Or to an endlesse gulfe, or to the night,
How many strange Meanders doe I finde?
How many paths do turne my straying pen?
How many doubtfull twilights make me blinde,
Which seeke to lim out this strange All of men?
Easie it were the earth to purtray out,
Or to draw forth the heauens purest frame,
Whose restlesse course, by order whirles about
Of change and place, and still remaines the same,
But how shall mens, or manners forme appeare,
Which while I write, do change frō that they were?