Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light.

Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise.

Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise.

His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave.

Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.