Way did my parents fend me to the schools, That I with knowledge might enrich my mind? Since the defire to know first made men fools,

And did corrupt the root of all mankind;

For when God's hand had written in the hearts
Of the first parents, all the rules of good,
So that their skill infus'd, and did pass all arts
That ever were, before, or fince the flood;

And when their reasons eye was sharp and clear,
And (as an eagle can behold the fun)
Could have approach'd th' eternal light as near,
As th' intellectual angels could have done :

E'en then to them th' fpirit of lies fuggefts,
That they were blind, because they saw not ill,
And breath'd into their incorrupted breasts

A curious with, which did corrupt their will.

For that fame ill they straight defir'd to know; Which ill, being naught but a defect of good, In all God's works the Devil could not show, While man their Lord in his perfection stood.

So that themselves were first to do the ill,

Ere they thereof the knowledge could attain, Like him that knew not poifon's power to kill, Until (by tafting it) himfelf was flain.

[find;

E'en fo by tafting of that fruit forbid,
Where they fought knowledge they did error
Ill they defir'd to know, and ill they did;
And to give paffion eyes, made reafon blind.

For then their minds did first in paffion fee
Those wretched fhapes of mifery and woe,
Of nakedness, of fhame, of poverty, [know.
Which then their own experience made them

But then grew reafon dark, that the no more,
Could the fair forms of good and truth discern,
Bats they became, that eagles were before;
And this they got by their defire to learn.

But we, their wretched offspring, what do we? Do not we ftill tafte of the fruit forbid? Whilft with fond fruitless curiofity,

In books profane we feek for knowledge hid.

What is this knowledge? but the sky-ftol'n fire,

For which the thief* ftill chain'd in ice deth fit? And which the poor rude fatyr† did adaure, And needs would kifs, but burnt his lips with 2. What is it? but the cloud of empty rain,[

Which when Jove's guest || embrac'd, he monim Or the falle pails, which oft being fill'd with pain Receiv'd the water, but retain'd it not?

In fine, what is it? but the fiery coach

Which the youth § fought, and fought his death withal?

Or the boy's wings, which when he did approse The fun's hot beams, did melt and let him.

And yet alas! when all our lamps are burn'd,

Our bodies wafted, and our spirits spent ; When we have all the learned volumes turn'd Which yield men's wits both help and ornament

What can we know ? or what can we difcern?

When error choaks the windows of the mind, The divers forms of things, how can we learn! That have been ever from our birth-day blind?

When reafon's lamp, which (like the fun in fky)
Throughout man's little world her beams cid
Spread,

Is now become a fparkle, which doth lie
Under the afhes, half extinct, and dead:

How can we hope, that through the eye and ear,
This dying sparkle, in this cloudy place,
Can recollect thefe beams of knowledge clear,
Which were infus'd in the first minds by grace!

So might the heir, whofe father hath in play
Wafted a thousand pounds of ancient rent,
By painful earning of one groat a day,
Hope to restore the patrimony fpent.

The wits that div'd most deep, and foar'd most
high.
[fuch:
Seeking man's pow'rs, have found his weakness
"Skill comes fo flow, and life fo fast doth fly,
"We learn fo little and forget so much."

Ve feek to know the moving of each sphere,

At first the startles, then fhe ftands amaz'd;
At laft with terror the from thence doth fly;
And loathes the watry glafs wherein the gaz'd,
And fhuns it ftill, though the for thirst doth
die :

E'en fo man's Soul which did God's image bear, And was at first fair, good, and spotless pure, Since with her fins her beauties blotted were, Doth of all fights her own fight least endure:

For e'en at first reflection she espies

Such strange chimeras, and fuch monsters there, Such toys, fuch antics, and fuch vanities,

As the retires, and fhrinks for fhame and fear.

And as the man loves least at home to be,

That hath a sluttish house haunted with sprites; So fhe impatient her own faults to fee,

Turns from herself, and in strange things de lights.

For this few know themselves: for merchants broke

View their eftate with difcontent and pain, And feas are troubled, when they do revoke Their flowing waves into themselves again.

And while the face of outward things we find,
Pleafing and fair, agreeable and Iweet,
These things transport, and carry out the mind,
That with herself the mind can never meet.

Nile;

ut of that clock within our breafts we bear, The fubtle motions we forget the while.

And threat the feebler fenfe with fword and fire,

The mind contracts herself, and shrinketh in,
And to herself she gladly doth retire :

As fpiders touch'd, feek their web's inmost part; As becs in ftorms back to their hives return; As blood in danger gathers to the heart;

As men feek towns, when foes the country burn.

If aught can teach us aught, affliction's looks, (Making us pry into our felves fo near) Teach us to know ourselves beyond all books,

Or all the learned schools that ever were.

This miftrefs lately pluck'd me by the ear,

And many a golden leffon hath me taught; Hath made my fenfes quick, and reafon clear; Reform'd my will and rectify'd my thought.

She within lifts my ranging mind hath brought,
That now beyond myself I will not go;
Myself am centre of my circling thought,
Only myself I ftudy, learn, and know.

I know my Body's of fo frail a kind,

As force without, fevers within can kill: I know the heavenly nature of my mind,

But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will:

I know my Soul hath power to know all thing

Yet is the blind and ignorant in all : I know I'm one of nature's little kings, Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life's a pain, and but a span;
I know my fenfe is mock'd in ev'ry thing;
And to conclude, I know myself a man,
Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing.

Faz lights of heav'n (which are the world's fair eyes)

Look down into the world, the world to fee; ind as they turn or wander in the skies, "Survey all things that on this centre be.

And yet the lights which in my tow'r do fhine, 'Mine eyes, which view all objects nigh and far, ook not into this little world of mine, Nor fee my face, wherein they fixed are.

ince Nature fails us in no needful thing,
Why want 1 means my inward self to fee?
Which fight the knowledge of myself might bring,
Which to true wisdom is the first degree.

hat Pow'r, which gave me eyes the world to view,

To view myfelf, infus'd an inward light,
Thereby my Soul, as by a mirror true,
Of her own form may take a perfect fight.

ut as the fharpeft eye difcerneth nought,
Except the fun-beams in the air do fhine;
o the best Soul, with her reflecting thought,
Sees not herself without fome light divine.

4

light, which mak'ft the light, which makes the day!

Which fet'ft the eye without, and mind within, Lighten my fpirit with one clear heavenly ray, Which now to view itself doth first begin.

For her true form how can my spark difcern, Which, dim by nature, art did never clear? When the great wits, of whom all kill we learn,

Are ignorant both what she is, and where.

One thinks the Soul is air; another fire;

Another blood, diffus'd about the heart; Another faith, the elements confpire,

And to her effence each doth give a part.

Musicians think our fouls are harmonies; Phyficians hold that they complexions be; Epicures make them fwarms of atomies,

Which do by chance into our bodies flee.

Some think one gen'ral Soul fills every brain,

As the bright fun fheds light in every star; And others think the name of Soul is vain, And that we only well-mixt bodies are.

In judgment of her substance thus they vary; And thus they vary in judgment of her feat; For fome her chair up to the brain do carry, Some thrust it down into the ftomach's heat.

Some place it in the root of life, the heart;

Some in the river, fountain of the veins; Some fay, she's all in all, and all in ev'ry part; Some fay, he's not contain'd, but all con-tains.

And though this fpirit be to th' Body knit,
As an apt means her pow'rs to exercise,
Which are life, motion, fenfe, and will, and wit,
Yet the furvives, although the Body dies.

SECTION I

That the Soul is a thing fubfifting by itfely the Body.

SHE is a fubftance, and a real thing,

Which hath itself an actual working might, Which neither from the fenfes power doth fpring, Nor from the Body's humours temper'd right

She is a vine, which doth no propping need,
To make her spread herself, or fpring upright;
She is a ftar, whose beams do not proceed

From any fun, but from a native light.

For when the forts things prefent with things pal, And thereby things to come doth oft forefer, When the doth doubt at firft, and choose at lal,

These ads her own, without her body be.

When of the dew, which th' eye and ear do tak, She doth within both wax and honey make: From flow'rs abroad, and bring into the brain,

This work is hers, this is her proper pain.

When the from fundry acts, one skill dosh draw, Gathering from divers fights one art of war, From many cafes, like one rule of law;

Thefe her collections, not the fenses are.