LX.

They that in course of heavenly spheares are skild To every planet point his sundry yeare, In which her circles voyage is fulfild: As Mars in threescore yeares doth run his spheare. So, since the winged god his planet cleare Began in me to move, one yeare is spent; The which doth longer unto me appeare, Then al those fourty which my life out-went. Then, by that count which lovers books invent, The spheare of Cupid fourty yeares containes, Which I have wasted in long languishment, That seem’d the longer for my greater paines. But let my Loves fayre planet short her wayes This yeare ensuing, or else short my dayes.

[Footnote: LX. 4.—_As Mars in three score yeares_. I do not understand Spenser’s astronomy. C.]