To the Spheares. Sonnet. 21 (Sonnet 21)

THou which doost guide this little world of loue,
Thy planets mansions heere thou maist behold,
My brow the spheare where Saturne still doth moue,
wrinckled with cares, withered, dry and cold;
Mine eyes the Orbe where Iupiter doth trace,
Which gently smile because they looke on thee,
Mars in my swartie visage takes his place,
Made leane with loue, where furious conflicts bee:
Sol in my breast with his hote scorching flame,
But in my heart alone doth Venus raigne;
Mercury my hands, the Organs of my fame,
Luna my wauering and vnconstant vaine;
The starry heauen thy praise by me exprest,
Thou the first mouer, guiding all the rest.