Christopher Marlowe

Crowned, girdled, garbed and shod with light and fire, Son first-born of the morning, sovereign star! Soul nearest ours of all, that wert most far. Most far off in the abysm of time, thy lyre Hung highest above the dawn-enkindled quire Where all ye sang together, all that are, And all the starry songs behind thy car Rang sequence, all our souls acclaim thee sire. "If all the pens that ever poets held Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts," And as with rush of hurtling chariots The flight of all their spirits were impelled Toward one great end, thy glory -- nay, not then, Not yet might'st thou be praised enough of men.