There's not the ſmalleſt orbe [in the sky] vvhich thou beholdſt, / But in his motion like an Angell ſings, / Still quiring to the young eide Cherubins; / Such harmony is in immortall ſoules, / But vvhilſt this muddy veſture of decay [i.e., the human body] / Doth groſſely cloſe in it, vve cannot heare it.