Time, that leads the fatal round

Time, that leads the fatal round,
Hath made his centre in our ground,
With swelling seas embraced;
And there at one stay he rests,
And with the Fates keeps holy feasts,
With pomp and pastime graced.
Light Cupids there do dance and Venus sweetly sings
With heavenly notes tuned to sound of silver strings:
Their songs are all of joy, no sign of sorrow there,
But all as starres glist'ring fair and blithe appear.