Poems, Poem 1
THE PROGRESSE OF THE SOULE.
Firſt Song. I.
I Sing the progreſſe of a deathleſſe ſoule,
Whom Fate, which God made, but doth not controule,
Plac'd in moſt ſhapes; all times before the law
Yoak'd us, and when, and ſince, in this I ſing.
And the great world to his aged evening;
From infant morne, through manly noone I draw.
What the gold Chaldee, or ſilver Perſian ſaw,
Greeke braſſe, or Roman iron, is in this one;
A worke t'outweare Seths pillars, bricke and ſtone,
And (holy writs excepted) made to yeeld to none.
II.
Thee, eye of heaven, this great Soule envies not,
By thy male force, is all wee have, begot,
In the firſt eaſt, thou now begins to ſhine,
Suck'ſt early balme, and Iland ſpices there,
And wilt anon in thy looſe-rein'd careere
At Tagus, Po, Sene, Thames, and Danon dine.
And ſee at night thy Weſterne land of mine,
Yet haſt thou not more nations ſeene then ſhee,
That before thee, one day beganne to be,
And thy fraile light being quench'd, ſhall long, long out live thee.
III.
Nor holy Ianus in whoſe ſoveraigne boate
The Church, and all the Monarchies did floate;
That ſwimming Colledge, and free Hoſpitall
Of all mankinde, that cage and vivarie,
Of fowles, and beaſts, in whoſe wombe, Deſtinie
Us, and our lateſt nephewes did inſtall
(From thence are all deriv'd, that fill this All)
Did'ſt thou in that great ſtewardſhip embarke
So diverſe ſhapes into that floating parke,
As have beene moved, and inform'd by this heavenly ſparke.
IV.
Great Deſtiny the commiſſary of God,
That haſt mark'd out a path and period
For every thing, who, where wee of-ſpring tooke,
Our wayes and ends ſeeſt at one inſtant. Thou
Knot of all cauſes, thou whoſe changeleſſe brow
Ne're ſmiles nor frownes, O vouch-ſafe thou to looke
And ſhew my ſtory, in thy eternall booke.
That (if my prayer be fit) I may 'underſtand
So much my ſelfe, as to know with what hand,
How ſcant, or liberall this my lifes race is ſpand.
V.
To my ſixe luſters almoſt now outwore,
Except thy booke owe mee ſo many more,
Except my legend be free from the letts
Of ſteepe ambition, ſleepie povertie,
Spirit-quenching ſickneſſe, dull captivitie,
Diſtracting buſineſſe, and from beauties nets,
And all that calls from this, and to others whets,
O let me not launch out, but let mee ſave
Th'expence of braine and ſpirit; that my grave
His right and due, a whole unwaſted man may have.
VI.
But if my dayes be long, and good enough,
In vaine this ſea ſhall enlarge, or enrough
It ſelfe; for I will through the wave, and fome,
And ſhall in ſad love wayes, a lively ſpright
Make my darke heavy Poëm light, and light.
For though through many ſtreights, & lands I roame,
I launch at paradiſe, and I ſaile towards home;
The courſe I there began, ſhall here be ſtaid,
Sailes hoiſed there, ſtroke here, and anchors laid
In Thames, which were at Tigrys, and Euphrates waide.
VII.
For the great ſoule which here amongſt us now
Doth dwell, and moves that hand, and tongue, & brow,
Which as the Moone the ſea, moves us, to heare
Whoſe ſtory, with long patience you will long;
(For 'tis the crowne, and laſt ſtraine of my ſong)
This ſoule to whom Luther, and Mahomet were
Priſons of fleſh; this ſoule which oft did teare,
And mend the wracks of th'Empire, and late Rome,
And liv'd when every great change did come,
Had firſt in paradiſe, a low, but fatall roome.
VIII.
Yet no low roome, nor then the greateſt, leſſe,
If (as devout and ſharpe men fitly gueſſe)
That Croſſe, our joy, and griefe, where nailes did tye
That All, which alwayes was all, every where
Which could not ſinne, and yet all ſinnes did beare;
Which could not die, yet could not chuſe but die;
Stood in the ſelfe ſame roome in Calvarie,
Where firſt grew the forbidden learned tree,
For on that tree hung in ſecurity.
This Soule, made by the Makers will from pulling free.
IX.
Prince of the orchard, faire as dawning morne,
Fenc'd with the law, and ripe as ſoone as borne
That apple grew, which this Soule did
Till the then climing ſerpent, that now creeps
For that offence, for which all mankinde weepes,
Tooke it, and t'her whom the firſt man did wive
(Whom and her race, only forbiddings drive)
He gave it, ſhe, t'her huſband, both did eate;
So periſhed the eaters, and the meate:
And wee (for treaſon taints the blood) thence die and ſweat.
X.
Man all at once was there by woman ſlaine,
And one by one we'are here ſlaine o'er againe
By them. The mother poiſoned the well-head,
The daughters here corrupts us,
No ſmalneſſe ſcapes, no greatneſſe breake their nets,
She thruſt us out, and by them we are led
Aſtray, from turning, to whence we are fled,
Were priſoners Judges, t'would ſeeme rigorous,
Shee ſinn'd, we here, part of our paine is, thus
To love them, whoſe fault to this painfull love yoak'd us.
XI.
So faſt in us doth this corruption grow,
That now wee dare aske why wee ſhould be ſo,
Would God (diſputes the curious Rebell) make
A law, and would not have it kept? Or can
His creatures will, croſſe his? Of every man
For one, will God (and be juſt) vengeance take?
Who ſinn'd? t'was not forbidden to the ſnake
Nor her, who was not then made; nor i'ſt writ
That Adam cropt, or knew the apple; yet
The worme and ſhe, and he, and wee endure for it.
XII.
But ſnatch mee heavenly Spirit, from this vaine
Reckoning their vanities, leſſe is their gaine
Then hazard ſtill, to meditate on ill,
Though with good minde, their reaſons like thoſe toyes
Of glaſſie bubles, with the gameſome boyes
Stretch to ſo nice a thinnes through a quill
That they themſelves breake, doe themſelves ſpill,
Arguing is heretiques game, and Exerciſe
As wraſtlers, perfect them; Not liberties
Of ſpeech, but ſilence; hands, not tongues, end hereſies.
XIII.
Juſt in that inſtant when the ſerpents gripe,
Broke the ſlight veines, and tender conduit-pipe,
Through which this ſoule from the trees root did draw
Life, and growth to this apple, fled away
This looſe ſoule, old, one and another day.
As lightning, which one ſcarce dares ſay, he ſaw,
'Tis ſo ſoone gone, (and better proofe the law
Of ſenſe, then faith requires) ſwiftly ſhe flew
To a darke and foggie Plot; Her, her fates threw
There through th'earth-pores, and in a Plant houſ'd her a new.
XIV.
The plant thus abled, to it ſelfe did force
A place, where no place was; by natures courſe
As aire from water, water fleets away
From thicker bodies, by this root thronged ſo
His ſpungie confines gave him place to grow,
Juſt as in our ſtreets, when the people ſtay
To ſee the Prince, and ſo fill'd the way
That weeſels ſcarce could paſſe, when ſhe comes nere
They throng and cleave up, and a paſſage cleare,
As if, for that time, their round bodies flatned were.
XV.
His right arme he thruſt out towards the Eaſt,
Weſt-ward his left; th'ends did themſelves digeſt
Into ten leſſer ſtrings, theſe fingers were:
And as a ſlumberer ſtretching on his bed;
This way he this, and that way ſcattered
His other legge, which feet with toes upbeare;
Grew on his middle parts, the firſt day, haire,
To ſhow, that in loves buſineſſe hee ſhould ſtill
A dealer bee, and be uſ'd well, or ill:
His apples kinde, his leaves, force of conception kill.
XVI.
A mouth, but dumbe, he hath; blinde eyes, deafe eares,
And to his ſhoulders dangle ſubtile haires;
A young Coloſſus there hee ſtands upright,
And as that ground by him were conquered
A leafie garland weares he on his head
Enchas'd with little fruits, ſo red and bright
That for them you would call your Loves lips white;
So, of a lone unhaunted place poſſeſt,
Did this ſoules ſecond Inne, built by the gueſt
This living buried man, this quiet mandrake, reſt▪
XVII.
No luſtfull woman came this plant to grieve,
But t'was becauſe there was none yet but Eve:
And ſhe (with other purpoſe) kill'd it quite;
Her ſinne had now brought in infirmities,
And ſo her cradled child, the moiſt red eyes
Had never ſhut, nor ſleept ſince it ſaw light,
Poppie ſhe knew, ſhe knew the mandrakes might;
And tore up both, and ſo coold her childs blood;
Unvirtuous weeds might long unvex'd have ſtood;
But hee's ſhort liv'd, that with his death can doe moſt good.
XVIII.
To an unfetterd ſoules quick nimble haſt
Are falling ſtars, and hearts thoughts, but ſlow pac'd:
Thinner then burnt aire flies this ſoule, and ſhe
Whom foure new comming, and foure parting Suns
Had found, and left the Mandrakes tenant, runnes
Thought leſſe of change, when her firme deſtiny
Confin'd, and enjayld her, that ſeem'd ſo free,
Into a ſmall blew ſhell, the which a poore
Warme bird oreſpread, and ſat ſtill evermore,
Till her uncloath'd child kickt, and pick'd it ſelfe a dore.
XIX.
Outcrept a ſparrow, this ſoules moving Inne,
On whoſe raw armes ſtiffe feathers now begin,
As childrens teeth through gummes, to breake with paine,
His fleſh is jelly yet, and his bones threds,
All downy a new mantle overſpreads,
A mouth he opes, which would as much containe
As his late houſe, and the firſt houre ſpeaks plaine,
And chirps alowd for meat. Meat fit for men
His father ſteales for him, and ſo feeds then
One, that within a monethmonth, will beate him from his hen.
XX
In this worlds youth wiſe nature did make haſt,
Things ripened ſooner, and did longer laſt;
Already this hot cocke in buſh and tree
In field and tent oreflutters his next hen,
He asks her not, who did ſo taſt, nor when,
Nor if his ſiſter, or his neece ſhee be,
Nor doth ſhe pule for his inconſtancie
If in her ſight he change, nor doth refuſe
The next that calls; both liberty doe uſe;
Where ſtore is of both kindes, both kindes may freely chuſe.
XXI.
Men, till they tooke laws which made freedome leſſe,
Their daughters, and their ſiſters did ingreſſe,
Till now unlawfull, therefore ill; t'was not
So jolly, that it can move this ſoule; Is
The body ſo free of his kindneſſes,
That ſelfe preſerving it hath now forgot,
And ſlackneth ſo the ſoules, and bodies knot,
Which tēperance ſtreightens; freely on his ſhe friends
He blood, and ſpirit, pith, and marrow ſpends,
Ill ſteward of himſelf, himſelfe in three yeares ends.
XXII.
Elſe might he long have liv'd; man did not know
Of gummie blood, which doth in holly grow
How to make bird-lime, nor how to deceive
With faind calls, his nets, or enwrapping ſnare
The free inhabitants of the Plyant aire.
Man to beget, and woman to conceive
Askt not of rootes, nor of cock-ſparrowes, leave:
Yet chuſeth hee, though none of theſe he feares,
Pleaſantly three, then ſtreightned twenty yeares
To live, and to encreaſe, himſelfe outweares.
XXIII.
This cole with overblowing quench'd and dead,
The Soule from her too active organs fled
T'a brooke; a female fiſhes ſandie Roe
With the males jelly, newly lev'ned was,
For they intertouched as they did paſſe,
And one of thoſe ſmall bodies, fitted ſo,
This ſoule inform'd, and abled it to roe
It ſelfe with finnie oares, which ſhe did fit,
Her ſcales ſeem'd yet of parchment, and as yet
Perchance a fiſh, but by no name you could call it.
XXIV.
When goodly, like a ſhip in her full trim,
A ſwan, ſo white that you may unto him
Compare all whiteneſſe, but himſelfe to none,
Glided along, and as he glided watch'd,
And with his arched necke this poore fiſh catch'd.
It mov'd with ſtate, as if to looke upon
Low things it ſcorn'd, and yet before that one
Could thinke he ſought it, he had ſwallowed cleare
This, and much ſuch, and unblam'd devour'd there
All, but who too ſwift, too great, or well arm'd were
XXV.
Now ſwome a priſon in a priſon put,
And now this Soule in double walls was ſhut,
Till melted with the Swans digeſtive fire,
She left her houſe the fiſh, and vapour'd forth;
Fate not affording bodies of more worth
For her as yet, bids her againe retire
T'another fiſh, to any new deſire
Made a new prey; For, he that can to none
Reſiſtance make, nor complaint, ſure is gone.
Weakneſſe invites, but ſilence feaſts oppreſſion.
XXVI.
Pace with the native ſtreame, this fiſh doth keepe,
And journeyes with her, towards the glaſſie deepe,
But oft retarded, once with a hidden net
Though with great windowes, for when need firſt taught
Theſe tricks to catch food, thē they were not wrought
As now, with curious greedineſſe to let
None ſcape, but few, and fit for uſe to get,
As, in this trap a ravenous pike was tane,
Who, though himſelfe diſtreſt, would faine have ſlain
This wretch; So hardly are ill habits left again.
XXVII.
Here by her ſmallneſſe ſhee two deaths orepaſt,
Once innocence ſcap'd, and left the oppreſſor faſt;
The net through-ſwome, ſhe keepes the liquid path,
And whether ſhe leape up ſometimes to breath
And ſuck in aire, or finde it underneath,
Or working parts like mills, or limbecks hath
To make the wether thinne, and airelike faith
Cares not, but ſafe the Place ſhe's come unto
Where freſh, with ſalt waves meet, and what to doe
She knowes not, but betweene both makes a boord or two
XXVIII.
So farre from hiding her gueſts, water is
That ſhe ſhowes them in bigger quantities
Then they are. Thus doubtfull of her way,
For game and not for hunger a ſea Pie
Spied through this traiterous ſpectacle, from high,
The ſeely fiſh where it diſputing lay,
And t'end her doubts and her, beares her away,
Exalted ſhe'is, but to the exalters good,
As are by great ones, men which lowly ſtood.
It's raiſ'd, to be the Raiſers inſtrument and food.
XXIX.
Is any kinde ſubject to rape like fiſh?
Ill unto man, they neither doe, nor wiſh:
Fiſhers they kill not, nor with noiſe awake,
They doe not hunt, nor ſtrive to make a prey
Of beaſts, nor their yong ſonnes to beare away;
Foules they purſue not, nor do undertake
To ſpoile the neſts induſtruous birds do make;
Yet them all theſe unkinde kinds feed upon,
To kill them is an occupation,
And lawes make faſts, & lents for their deſtruction.
XXX.
A ſudden ſtiffe land-winde in that ſelfe houre
To ſea-ward forc'd this bird, that did devour
The fiſh; he cares not, for with eaſe he flies,
Fat gluttonies beſt orator: at laſt
So long hee hath flowen, and hath flowen ſo faſt
That leagues o'er-paſt at ſea, now tir'd hee lyes,
And with his prey, that till then languiſht, dies,
The ſoules no longer foes, two wayes did erre,
The fiſh I follow, and keepe no calender
Of the other; he lives yet in ſome great officer.
XXXI.
Into an embrion fiſh, our Soule is throwne
And in due time throwne out againe, and growne
To ſuch vaſtneſſe, as if unmanacled
From Greece, Morea were, and that by ſome
Earthquake unrooted, looſe Morea ſwome,
Or ſeas from Africks body had ſevered
And torne the hopefull Promontories head,
This fiſh would ſeeme theſe, and, when all hopes faile,
A great ship overſet, or without ſaile
Hulling, might (when this was a whelp) be like this whale.
XXXII.
At every ſtroake his brazen finnes do take
More circles in the broken ſea they make
Then cannons voices, when the aire they teare:
His ribs are pillars, and his high arch'd roofe
Of barke that blunts beſt ſteele, is thunder-proofe,
Swimme in him ſwallowed Dolphins, without feare,
And feele no ſides, as if his vaſt wombe were
Some Inland ſea, and ever as hee went
Hee ſpouted rivers up, as if he ment
To joyne our ſeas, with ſeas above the firmament.
XXXIII.
He hunts not fiſh, but as an officer,
Stayes in his court, at his owne net, and there
All ſuitors of all ſorts themſelves enthrall;
So on his backe lyes this whale wantoning,
And in his gulfe-like throat, ſucks every thing
That paſſeth neare. Fiſh chaſeth fiſh, and all,
Flyer and follower, in this whirlepoole fall;
O might not ſtates of more equality
Conſiſt? and is it of neceſſity
That thouſand guiltleſſe ſmals, to make one great, muſt die?
XXXIV.
Now drinkes he up ſeas, and he eates up flocks,
He juſtles Ilands, and he ſhakes firme rockes.
Now in a roomefull houſe this Soule doth float,
And like a Prince ſhe ſends her faculties
To all her limbes, diſtant as Provinces.
The Sunne hath twenty times both crab and goate
Parched, ſince firſt lanch'd forth this living boate.
'Tis greateſt now, and to deſtruction
Neareſt; There's no pauſe at perfection.
Greatneſſe a period hath, but hath no ſtation.
XXXV.
Two little fiſhes whom hee never harm'd,
Nor fed on their kinde, two not throughly arm'd
With hope that they could kill him, nor could doe
Good to themſelves by his death: they did not eate
His fleſh, nor ſuck thoſe oyles, which thence outſtreat,
Conſpir'd againſt him, and it might undoe
The plot of all, that the plotters were two,
But that they fiſhes were, and could not ſpeake.
How ſhall a Tyran wiſe ſtrong projects breake,
If wreches can on them the common anger wreake?
XXXVI.
The flaile-find Threſher, and ſteel-beak'd Sword-fiſh
OnelyOnly attempt to doe, what all doe wiſh.
The Threſher backs him, and to beate begins;
The ſluggard Whale yeelds to oppreſſion,
And t'hide himſelfe from ſhame and danger, downe
Begins to ſinke; the Swordfiſh upward ſpins,
And gores him with his beake; his ſtaffe-like finnes,
So were the one, his ſword the other plyes,
That now a ſcoffe, and prey, this tyran dyes,
And (his owne dole) feeds with himſelfe all companies.
XXXVII.
Who will revenge his death? or who will call
Thoſe to account, that thought, and wrought his fall?
The heires of ſlaine kings, wee ſee are often ſo
Tranſported with the joy of what they get,
That they, revenge, and obſequies forget,
Nor will againſt ſuch men the people goe,
Becauſe h'is now dead, to whom they ſhould ſhow
Love in that act. Some kings by vice being growne
So needy of ſubjects love, that of their won
They thinke they loſe, if love be to the dead Prince ſhown.
XXXVIII.
This Soule, now free from priſon, and paſſion,
Hath yet a little indignation
That ſo ſmall hammers ſhould ſo ſoone downe beat
So great a caſtle. And having for her houſe
Got the ſtreight cloyſter of a wreched mouſe
(As baſeſt men that have not what to eate,
Nor enjoy ought, doe farre more hate the great
Then they, who good repos'd eſtates poſſeſſe)
This Soule, late taught that great things might by leſſe
Be ſlain, to gallant miſchiefe doth herſelfe addreſſe.
XXXIX.
Natures great maſter-peece, an Elephant,
The onelyonly harmleſſe great thing; the giant
Of beaſts; who thought, no more had gone, to make one wiſe
But to be juſt, and thankfull, loth to offend,
(Yet nature hath given him no knees to bend)
Himſelfe he up-props, on himſelfe relies
And foe to none, ſuſpects no enemies,
Still ſleeping ſtood; vex't not his fantaſie
Blacke dreames, like an unbent bow, careleſly
His ſinewy Proboſcis did remiſly lie.
XL.
In which as in a gallery this mouſe
Walk'd, and ſurveid the roomes of this vaſt houſe,
And to the braine, the ſoules bed chamber, went,
And gnaw'd the life cords there; Like a whole towne
Cleane undermin'd, the ſlaine beaſt tumbled downe,
With him the murtherer dies whom envy ſent
To kill, not ſcape, for, only hee that ment
To die, did ever kill a man of better roome,
And thus he made his foe, his prey, and tombe:
Who cares not to turn back, may any whither come.
XLI.
Next, hous'd this Soule a Wolves yet unborne whelp,
Till the beſt midwife, Nature, gave it helpe,
To iſſue. It could kill, as ſoone as goe,
Abel, as white, and milde as his ſheepe were,
(Who in that trade of Church, and kingdomes, there
Was the firſt type) was ſtill infeſted ſoe,
With this wolfe, that it bred his loſſe and woe;
And yet his bitch, his ſentinell attends
The flocke ſo neere, ſo well warnes and defends,
That the wolfe, (hopeleſſe elſe) to corrupt her, intends.
XLII.
Hee tooke a courſe, which ſince, ſucceſfully,
Great men have often taken, to eſpie
The counſels, or to breake the plots of foes,
To Abels tent he ſtealeth in the darke,
On whoſe skirts the bitch ſlept; ere ſhe could barke,
Attach'd her with ſtreight gripes, yet hee call'd thoſe,
Embracements of love; to loves worke he goes,
Where deeds move more then words; nor doth ſhe ſhow,
Nor much reſiſt, nor needs hee ſtreighten ſo
His prey, for, were ſhee looſe, ſhe would not barke, nor goe.
XLIII.
Hee hath engag'd her; his, ſhe wholy bides;
Who not her owne, none others ſecrets hides,
If to the flocke he come, and Abell there,
She faines hoarſe barkings, but ſhe biteth not,
Her faith is quite, but not her love forgot.
At laſt a trap, of which ſome every where
Abell had plac'd, ends all his loſſe, and feare,
By the Wolves death; and now juſt time it was
That a quicke ſoule ſhould give life to that maſſe
Of blood in Abels bitch, and thither this did paſſe.
XLIV.
Some have their wives, their ſiſters ſome begot,
But in the lives of Emperours you ſhall not
Reade of a luſt the which may equall this;
This wolfe begot himſelfe, and finiſhed
What he began alive, when hee was dead,
Sonne to himſelfe, and father too, hee is
A ridling luſt, for which Schoolemen would miſſe
A proper name. The whelpe of both theſe lay
In Abels tent, and with ſoft Moaba,
His ſiſter, being yong, it us'd to ſport and play.
XLV.
Hee ſoone for her too harſh, and churliſh grew,
And Abell (the dam dead) would uſe this new
For the field, being of two kindes made,
He, as his dam, from ſheepe drove wolves away,
And as his Sire, he made them his owne prey.
Five yeares he liv'd, and coſened with his trade,
Then hopeleſſe that his faults were hid, betraid
Himſelfe by flight, and by all followed,
From dogges, a wolfe; from wolves, a dogge he fled;
And, like a ſpie to both ſides falſe, he periſhed.
XLVI.
It quickned next a toyfull Ape, and ſo
Gameſome it was, that it might freely goe
From tent to tent, and with the children play,
His organs now ſo like theirs hee doth finde,
That why he cannot laugh, and ſpeake his minde,
He wonders. Much with all, moſt he doth ſtay
With Adams fift daughter Siphatecia,
Doth gaze on her, and, where ſhe paſſeth, paſſe,
Gathers her fruits, and tumbles on the graſſe,
And wiſeſt of that kinde, the firſt true lover was.
XLVII.
He was the firſt that more deſir'd to have
One then another; firſt that ere did crave
Love by mute ſignes, and had no power to ſpeake;
Firſt that could make love faces, or could doe
The valters ſomberſalts, or us'd to wooe
With hoiting gambolls, his owne bones to breake
To make his miſtreſſe merry; or to wreake
Her anger on himſelfe. Sinnes againſt kinde
They eaſily doe, that can let feed their minde
With outward beauty, beauty they in boyes and beaſts do find.
XLVIII.
By this miſled, too low things men have prov'd,
And too high; beaſts and angels have beene lov'd;
This Ape, though elſe through-vaine, in this was wiſe,
He reach'd at things too high, but open way
There was, and he knew not ſhe would ſay nay;
His toyes prevaile not, likelier meanes he tries,
He gazeth on her face with teare-ſhot eyes,
And up lifts ſubtly with his ruſſet pawe
Her kidskinne apron without feare or awe
Of nature; nature hath no gaole, though ſhee hath law.
XLIX.
Firſt ſhe was ſilly and knew not what he ment,
That vertue, by his touches, chaft and ſpent,
Succeeds an itchie warmth, that melts her quite,
She knew not firſt, now cares not what he doth,
And willing halfe and more, more then halfe Tooth
She neither puls nor puſhes, but outright
Now cries, and now repents; when Tethelemite
Her brother, entred, and a great ſtone threw
After the Ape, who, thus prevented, flew,
This houſe thus batter'd downe, the Soule poſſeſt a new.
L.
And whether by this change ſhe loſe or win,
She comes out next, where the Ape would have gone in,
Adam and Eve had mingled bloods, and now
Like Chimiques equall fires, her temperate wombe
Had ſtew'd and form'd it: and part did become
A ſpungie liver, that did richly allow,
Like a free conduit, on a high hils brow,
Life keeping moiſture unto every part,
Part hardned it ſelfe to a thicker heart,
Whoſe buſie furnaces lifes ſpirits do impart.
LI.
Another part became the well of ſenſe,
The tender well arm'd feeling braine, from whence,
Thoſe ſinowie ſtrings which do our bodies tie,
Are raveld out, and faſt there by one end,
Did this Soule limbes, theſe limbes a ſoule attend,
And now they joyn'd: keeping ſome quality
Of every paſt ſhape, ſhe knew treachery,
Rapine, deceit, and luſt, and ills enow
To be a woman. Themech ſhe is now,
Siſter and wife to Caine, Caine that firſt did plow.
LII.
Who ere thou beeſt that read'ſt this ſullen Writ,
Which juſt ſo much courts thee, as thou doſt it,
Let me arreſt thy thoughts, wonder with mee,
Why plowing, building, ruling and the reſt,
Or moſt of thoſe arts, whence our lives are bleſt,
By curſed Cains race invented be,
And bleſt Seth vext us with Aſtronomie,
Ther's nothing ſimply good, nor ill alone,
Of every quality compariſon,
The onelyonly meaſure is, and judge, opinion.