Classic Poem

What poor astronomers are they
Take women's eyes for stars,
And set their thoughts in battle 'ray
To fight such idle wars;
When in the end they shall approve
'Tis but a jest drawn out of love.

And love itself is but a jest
Devis'd by idle heads,
To catch young fancies in the nest
And lay them in fools' beds;
That being hatch'd in beauty's eyes
They may be flidge ere they be wise.

But yet it is a sport to see
How wit will run on wheels,
While will cannot persuaded be
With that which reason feels;
That women's eyes and stars are odd,
And Love is but a feigned god.

But such as will run mad with will,
I cannot clear their sight,
But leave them to their study still
To look where is no light;
Till time too late we make them try
They study false astronomy.