The Consolation of Philosophy

Who knows not how the stars near to the poles do slide,

And how Boötes his slow wain doth guide,

And why he sets so late, and doth so early rise,

May wonder at the courses of the skies.

If when the moon is full her horns seem pale to sight,

Infested with the darkness of the night,

And stars from which all grace she with her brightness took,

Now show themselves, while she doth dimly look,

A public error straight through vulgar minds doth pass,

And they with many strokes beat upon brass.¹

None wonders why the winds upon the waters blow.

Nor why hot Phoebus' beams dissolve the snow.

These easy are to know, the other hidden lie,

And therefore more our hearts they terrify.

All strange events which time to light more seldom brings,

And the vain people count as sudden things,

If we our clouded minds from ignorance could free,

No longer would by us admired be."