SONG by JOHN DOWLAND

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,
Devised by idle heads,
To catch young fancies in the nest,
And lay it in fool's beds,
That being hatched in beauty's eyes,
They may be fledged ere they be wise.

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

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