_You that can look through Heaven, and tell the Stars,_ _Observe their kind conjunctions, and their wars;_ _Find out new Lights, and give them where you please,_ _To those men honors, pleasures, to those ease;_ _You that are God's Surveyers, and can show_ _How far, and when, and why the wind doth blow;_ _Know all the charges of the dreadful thunder,_ _And when it will shoot over, or fall under:_ _Tell me, by all your Art I conjure ye,_ _Yes, and by truth, what shall become of me?_ _Find out my Star, if each one, as you say,_ _Have his peculiar Angel, and his way;_ _Observe my fate, next fall into your dreams,_ _Sweep clean your houses, and new line your Sceames,_ _Then say your worst: or have I none at all?_ _Or is it burnt out lately? or did fall?_ _Or am I poor? not able, no full flame?_ _My Star, like me, unworthy of a name?_ _Is it your Art can only work on those,_ _That deal with dangers, dignities, and cloaths?_ _With Love, or new Opinions? you all lye,_ _A Fish-wife hath a fate, and so have I,_ _But far above your finding; he that gives,_ _Out of his providence, to all that lives,_ _And no man knows his treasure, no, not you:_ _He that made_ Egypt _blind, from whence you grew_ _Scabby and lowzie, that the world might see_ _Your Calculations are as blind as ye:_ _He that made all the Stars, you daily read,_ _And from thence filtch a knowledge how to feed;_ _Hath hid this from you, your conjectures all_ _Are drunken things, not how, but when they fall:_ _Man is his own Star, and the soul that can_ _Render an honest, and a perfect man,_ _Commands all light, all influence, all fate,_ _Nothing to him falls early, or too late._ _Our Acts our Angels are, or good or ill,_ _Our fatal shadows that walk by us still,_ _And when the Stars are labouring, we believe_ _It is not that they govern, but they grieve_ _For stuborn ignorance; all things that are_ _Made for our general uses, are at war,_ _Even we among our selves, and from the strife,_ _Tour first unlike opinions got a life._ _Oh man! thou Image of thy Makers good,_ _What canst thou fear, when breathed into thy bloud,_ _His spirit is, that built thee? what dull sence_ _Makes thee suspect, in need, that Providence?_ _Who made the morning, and who plac'd the light_ _Guide to thy labours? who call'd up the night,_ _And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers_ _In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers?_ _Who gave thee knowledge, who so trusted thee,_ _To let thee grow so near himself, the Tree?_ _Must he then be distrusted? shall his frame_ _Discourse with him, why thus, and thus I am?_ _He made the Angels thine, thy fellows all,_ _Nay, even thy servants, when Devotions call._ _Oh! canst thou be so stupid then, so dim,_