AS I one evening sat before my cell,
Me thoughts a starre did shoot into my lap.
I rose, and shook my clothes, as knowing well,
That from small fires comes oft no small mishap.
        When suddenly I heard one say,      
        Do as thou usest, disobey,
        Expell good motions from thy breast,
Which have the face of fire, but end in rest.

I, who had heard of musick in the spheres,
But not of speech in starres, began to muse:
But turning to my God, whose ministers
The starres and all things are; If I refuse,
        Dread Lord, said I, so oft my good;
        Then I refuse not ev’n with bloud
        To wash away my stubborn thought:
For I will do or suffer what I ought.

But I have also starres and shooters too,
Born where thy servants both artilleries use.
My tears and prayers night and day do wooe,
And work up to thee; yet thou dost refuse.
        Not but I am (I must say still)
        Much more oblig’d to do thy will,
        Then thou to grant mine: but because
Thy promise now hath ev’n  set thee thy laws.

Then we are shooters both, and thou dost deigne
To enter combate with us, and contest
With thine own clay. But I would parley fain:
Shunne not my arrows, and behold my breast.
        Yet if thou shunnest, I am thine:
        I must be so, if I am mine.
        There is no articling with thee:
I am but finite, yet thine infinitely.