THE world, that all contains, is ever moving;
The stars within their spheres forever turn'd;
Nature, the queen of change, to change is loving,
And form to matter new is still adjourn'd.
Fortune, our fancy-god, to vary liketh;
Place is not bound to things within it plac'd;
The present time upon time pass'd striketh;
With Phoebus' wand'ring course the earth is grac'd.
The air still moves, and by its moving cleareth;
The fire up ascends and planets feedeth;
The water passeth on and all lets eareth;
The earth stands still, yet change of changes breedeth.
Her plants, which summer ripes, in winter fade;
Each creature in unconstant mother lieth;
Man made of earth, and for whom earth is made,
Still dying lives and living ever dieth;
Only, like fate, sweet Myra never varies,
Yet in her eyes the doom of all change carries.
