Caelica, Sonnet LXII

THe greatest pride of humane kind is Wit,
Which all Art out, and into methode drawes,
Yet Infinite, is farre exceeding it,
And so is Chance, of vnknowne things the cause,
The feet of men against our feet doe moue,
No wit can comprehend the wayes of Loue.

He that direct on paralells doth saile,
Goes Eastward out, and Eastward doth returne;
The shadowed man, whom Phoebus light doth faile,
Is blacke like him, his heat doth ouerburne;
The wheeles of high desire with force doe moue,
Nothing can fall amisse to them that loue.

Vapours of earth which to the Sunne aspire,
As Natures tribute vnto heate or light,
Are frozen in the midst of high desire,
And melted in sweet beames of selfe-delight,
And who to flye with Cupids wings will proue,
Must not bewaile these many ayres of Loue.

Men that doe vse the Compasse of the Sea,
And see the Needle ouer Northward looke,
Some doe the vertue in the Loadstone lay,
Some say, the stone it from the North-starre tooke,
And let him know that thinks with faith to moue,
They once had eyes, that are made blind by loue.