"Who worships Cupid, doth adore a boy, Boyes earnest are at first in their delight, But for a new, soone leave their dearest toy, And out of minde, as soone as out of sight, Their joyes be dallyings and their wealth is play, They cry to have, and cry to cast away.Marsis an Idoll, and Mans lust, his skye; Whereby his glories still are full of wounds, Who worships him, their fame goes farre and nigh, But still of ruine and distresse it sounds. Yet cannot all be wonne, and who doth live, Must roome to neighbours and succession give.Those Mercurists that upon humors worke, And so make others skill, and power their owne, Are like the Climats, which farre Northward lurke, And through long Winters must reape what is sowne; Or like the Masons, whose Art building well, Yet leaves the house for other men to dwell.Mercurie, Cupid, Mars, they be no Gods, But humane Idols, built up by desire, Fruit of our boughs, whence heaven maketh rods, And babyes too for child-thoughts that aspire: Who sees their glories, on the earth must prye; Who seeks true glory must looke to the skye."