CYNTHIA, because your horns look diverse ways,
Now darken'd to the east, now to the west,
Then at full-glory once in thirty days,
Sense doth believe that change is nature's rest.
Poor earth, that dare presume to judge the sky,
Cynthia is ever round and never varies,
Shadows and distance do abuse the eye,
And in abused sense truth oft miscarries,
Yet who this language to the people speaks,
Opinion's empire, sense's idol breaks.
