Book 1, Epigram 5: Ad lectorem de subjecto operis sui.

The little world, the subject of my muse,

Is a huge task and labor infinite;

Like to a wilderness or mass confuse,

Or to an endless gulf, or to the night:

How many strange Meanders do I find?

How many paths do turn my straying pen?

How many doubtful twilights make me blind,

Which seek to limb out this strange All of men?

Easy it were the earth to portray out,

Or to draw forth the heavens’ purest frame,

Whose restless course, by order whirls about

Of change and place, and still remains the same.

    But how shall man’s, or manner’s, form appear,

    Which while I write, do change from what they were?