Poems, Poem 69
AN ANATOMIE OF THE WORLD.
Wherein, By occaſion of the untimely death of Miſtris ELIZABETH DRVRY, the frailty and the decay of this whole World is repreſented.
The firſt Anniverſary.
To the praiſe of the dead, and the ANATOMIE.
VVEll dy'd the World, that we might live to ſee
This world of wit, in his Anatomie:
No evill wants his good; ſo wilder heires
Bedew their Fathers Tombes, with forced teares,
Whoſe ſtate requites their loſſe: whiles thus we gain,
Well may wee walke in blacks, but not complaine.
Yet how can I conſent the world is dead
While this Muſe lives? which in his ſpirits ſtead
Seemes to informe a World; and bids it bee,
In ſpight of loſſe or fraile mortalitie?
And thou the ſubject of this welborne thought,
Thrice noble maid, couldſt not have found nor ſought
A fitter time to yeeld to thy ſad Fate,
Then whiles this ſpirit lives, that can relate
Thy worth ſo well to our laſt Nephews eyne,
That they ſhall wonder both at his and thine:
Admired match! where ſtrives in mutuall grace
The cunning pencill, and the comely face:
A taske which thy faire goodneſſe made too much
For the bold pride of vulgar pens to touch;
Enough is us to praiſe them that praiſe thee,
And ſay, that but enough thoſe prayſes bee,
Which hadſt thou liv'd, had hid their fearfull head
From th'angry checkings of thy modeſt red:
Death barres reward and ſhame, when envy's gone,
And gaine, 'tis ſafe to give the dead their owne.
As then the wiſe Egyptians wont to lay
More on their Tombes, then houſes: theſe of clay,
But thoſe of braſſe, or marble were: ſo wee
Give more unto thy Ghoſt, then unto thee.
Yet what wee give to thee, thou gav'ſt to us,
And may'ſt but thanke thy ſelfe, for being thus:
Yet what thou gav'ſt, and wert, O happy maid,
Thy grace profeſt all due, where'tis repayd.
So theſe high ſongs that to thee ſuited bin
Serve but to ſound thy Makers praiſe and thine,
Which thy deare ſoule as ſweetly ſings to him
Amid the quire of Saints, and Seraphim,
As any Angels tongue can ſing of thee;
The ſubjects differ, though the skill agree:
For as by infant yeares men judge of age,
Thy early love, thy vertues did preſage,
What high part thou bear'ſt in thoſe beſt of ſongs,
Whereto no burden, nor no end belongs.
Sing on thou virgin Soule, whoſe loſsfull gaine
Thy loveſick parents have bewail'd in vaine;
Never may thy Name be in our ſongs forgot,
Till wee ſhall ſing thy ditty and thy note.
An Anatomy of the World.
The firſt Anniverſary.
WHen that rich Soule which to her heaven is gone,
Who all do celebrate, who know they have one,
(For who is ſure he hath a Soule, unleſſe
It ſee, and judge, and follow worthineſſe,
And by deeds praiſe it? hee who doth not this,
May lodge an immate ſoule, but'tis not his.)
When that Queene ended here her progreſſe time,
And, as t'her ſtanding houſe to heaven did climbe,
Where loath to make the Saints attend her long,
She's now a part both of the Quire, and Song.
This World, in that great earthquake languiſhed;
For in a common bath of teares it bled,
Which drew the ſtrongeſt vitall ſpirits out:
But ſuccour'd then with a perplexed doubt,
Whether the world did loſe, or gaine in this,
(Becauſe ſince now no other way there is,
But goodneſſe, to ſee her, whom all would ſee,
All muſt endeavour to be good as ſhee.)
This great conſumption to a fever turn'd,
And ſo the world had fits; it joy'd, it mourn'd;
And, as men thinke, that Agues phyſick are,
And th'Ague being ſpent, give over care.
So thou ſicke World, miſtak'ſt thy ſelfe to bee
Well, when alas, thou'rt in a Lethargie.
Her death did wound and tame thee than, and than
Thou might'ſt have better ſpar'd the Sunne, or man.
That wound was deep, but 'tis more miſery,
That thou haſt loſt thy ſenſe and memory.
'Twas heavy then to heare thy voyce of mone,
But this is worſe, that thou art ſpeechleſſe growne.
Thou haſt forgot thy name thou hadſt; thou waſt
Nothing but ſhee, and her thou haſt o'rpaſt.
For as a child kept from the Fount, untill
A prince, expected long, come to fulfill
The ceremonies, thou unnam'd had'ſt laid,
Had not her comming, thee her palace made:
Her name defin'd thee, gave thee forme, and frame,
And thou forgett'ſt to celebrate thy name.
Some moneths ſhe hath beene dead (but being dead,
Meaſures of times are all determined)
But long ſhe'ath beene away, long, long, yet none
Offers to tell us who it is that's gone.
But as in ſtates doubtfull of future heires,
When ſickneſſe without remedie empaires
The preſent Prince, they're loth it ſhould be ſaid,
The Prince doth languiſh, or the Prince is dead:
So mankinde feeling now a generall thaw,
A ſtrong example gone, equall to law;
The Cyment which did faithfully compact,
And glue all vertues, now reſolv'd, and ſlack'd,
Thought it ſome blaſphemy to ſay ſh'was dead,
Or that our weakneſſe was diſcovered
In that confeſſion; therefore ſpoke no more
Then tongues, the Soule being gone, the loſſe deplore.
But though it be too late to ſuccour thee,
Sicke World, yea, dead, yea putrified, ſince ſhee
Thy'intrinſique balme, and thy preſervative,
Can never be renew'd, thou never live,
I (ſince no man can make thee live) will try,
What wee may gaine by thy Anatomy.
Her death hath taught us dearely, that thou art
Corrupt and mortall in thy pureſt part.
Let no man ſay, the world it ſelfe being dead,
'Tis labour loſt to have diſcovered
The worlds infirmities, ſince there is none
Alive to ſtudy this diſſection;
For there's a kinde of World remaining ſtill,
Though ſhee which did inanimate and fill
The world, be gone, yet in this laſt long night,
Her Ghoſt doth walke, that is, a glimmering light,
A faint weake love of vertue, and of good,
Reflects from her, on them which underſtood
Her worth; and though ſhe have ſhut in all day,
The twilight of her memory doth ſtay;
Which, from the carcaſſe of the old world, free,
Creates a new world, and new creatures bee
Produc'd: the matter and the ſtuffe of this,
Her vertue, and the forme our practice is:
And thought to be thus elemented, arme
Theſe creatures, from homeborne intrinſique harme,
(For all aſſum'd unto this dignitie,
So many weedleſſe Paradiſes bee,
Which of themſelves produce no venemous ſinne,
Except ſome forraine Serpent bring it in)
Yet becauſe outward ſtormes the ſtrongeſt breake,
And ſtrength it ſelfe by confidence growes weake,
This new world may be ſafer, being told
The ſicknes of the WorldThe dangers and diſeaſes of the old:
For with due temper men doe then forgoe,
Or covet things, when they their true worth know.
Impoſſibility of healthThere is no health; Phyſitians ſay that wee,
At beſt, enjoy but a neutralitie.
And can there bee worſe ſickneſſe, then to know
That we are never well, nor can be ſo?
Wee are borne ruinous: poore mothers cry,
That children come not right, nor orderly;
Except they headlong come and fall upon
An ominous precipitation.
How witty's ruine, how importunate
Upon mankinde? it labour'd to fruſtrate
Even Gods purpoſe; and made woman, ſent
For mans reliefe, cauſe of his languiſhment.
They were to good ends, and they are ſo ſtill,
But acceſſory, and principall in ill;
For that firſt marriage was our funerall:
One woman at one blow, then kill'd us all,
And ſingly, one by one, they kill us now.
We doe delightfully our ſelves allow
To that conſumption; and profuſely blinde,
Wee kill our ſelves to propagate our kinde.
And yet we do not that; we are not men:
There is not now that mankinde, which was then,
When as, the Sunne and man did ſeeme to ſtrive,
Shortneſſe of life.(Joynt tenants of the world) who ſhould ſurvive.
When, Stagge, and Raven, and the long-liv'd tree,
Compar'd with man, dy'd in minoritie,
When, if a ſlow pac'd ſtarre had ſtolne away
From the obſervers marking, he might ſtay
Two or three hundred yeares to ſee't againe,
And then make up his obſervation plaine;
When, as the age was long, the ſiſe was great;
Mans growth confeſs'd, and recompenc'd the meat;
So ſpacious and large, that every Soule
Did a faire Kingdome, and large Realme controule:
And when the very ſtature, thus erect,
Did that ſoule a good way towards heaven direct.
Where is this mankinde now? who lives to age,
Fit to be made Methuſalem his page?
Alas, we ſcarce live long enough to try
Whether a true made clocke run right, or lie.
Old Granſires talke of yeſterday with ſorrow:
And for our children wee reſerve to morrow.
So ſhort is life, that every peſant ſtrives,
In a torne houſe, or field, to have three lives.
And as in laſting, ſo in length is man,
Smalneſſe of ſtature.Contracted to an inch, who was a ſpanne;
For had a man at firſt in forreſts ſtray'd,
Or ſhipwrack'd in the Sea, one would have laid
A wager, that an Elephant, or Whale,
That met him, would not haſtily aſſaile
A thing ſo equall to him: now alas,
The Fairies, and the Pigmies well may paſſe
As credible; mankinde decayes ſo ſoone,
We'are ſcarce our Fathers ſhadowes caſt at noone:
OnelyOnly death ads t'our length: nor are wee growne
In ſtature to be men, till we are none.
But this were light, did our leſſe volume hold
All the old Text; or had wee chang'd to gold
Their ſilver, or diſpos'd into leſſe glaſſe
Spirits of vertue, which then ſcatter'd was.
But 'tis not ſo: w'are not retir'd, but dampt;
And as our bodies ſo our mindes are crampt:
'Tis ſhrinking, not cloſe weaving that hath thus,
In minde, and body both bedwarfed us.
Wee ſeeme ambitious, Gods whole worke t'undoe;
Of nothing hee made us, and we ſtrive too,
To bring our ſelves to nothing backe; and wee
Doe what wee can, to do't ſo ſoone as hee.
With new diſeaſes on our ſelves wee warre,
And with new Phyſicke, a worſe Engin farre.
Thus man, this worlds Vice-Emperour, in whom
All faculties, all graces are at home;
And if in other creatures they appeare,
They're but mans Miniſters, and Legats there,
To worke on their rebellions, and reduce
Them to Civility, and to mans uſe.
This man, whom God did wooe, and loth t'attend
Till man came up, did downe to man deſcend,
This man ſo great, that all that is, is his,
Oh what a trifle, and poore thing he is!
If man were any thing; he's nothing now:
Helpe, or at leaſt ſome time to waſt, allow
T'his other wants, yet when he did depart
With her whom we lament, hee loſt his heart.
She, of whom th'Ancients ſeem'd to propheſie,
When they call'd vertues by the name of ſhee;
Shee in whom vertue was ſo much refin'd,
That for allay unto ſo pure a minde
Shee tooke the weaker Sex: ſhee that could drive
The poyſonous tincture, and the ſtaine of Eve,
Out of her thought, and deeds; and purifie
All, by a true religious Alchymie;
She▪ ſhe is dead; ſhee's dead: when thou knoweſt this,
Thou knoweſt how poore a trifling thing man is.
And learn'ſt thus much by our Anatomie,
The heart being periſh'd, no part can be free.
And that except thou feed (not banquet) on
The ſupernaturall food, Religion:
Thy better growth growes withered, and ſcant;
Be more then man, or thou'rt leſſe then an Ant.
Then as mankinde, ſo is the worlds whole frame
Quite out of joynt, almoſt created lame:
For, before God had made up al the reſt,
Corruption entred, and deprav'd the beſt:
It ſeis'd the Angells, and then firſt of all
The world did in her cradle take a fall,
And turn'd her braines, and tooke a generall maime,
Wronging each joynt of th'univerſall frame.
The nobleſt part, man, felt it firſt; and than
Decay of nature in other parts.Both beaſts and plants, curſt in the curſe of man,
So did the world from the firſt houre decay,
That evening was beginning of the day,
And now the Springs and Sommers which we ſee,
Like ſonnes of women after fiftie bee.
And new Philoſophy calls all in doubt,
The Element of fire is quite put out;
The Sun is loſt, and th'earth, and no mans wit
Can well direct him where to looke for it.
And freely men confeſſe that this world's ſpent,
When in the Planets, and the firmament
They ſeeke ſo many new; they ſee that this
Is crumbled out againe to his Atomies.
'Tis all in peeces, all coherence gone;
All juſt ſupply, and all Relation:
Prince, Subject, Father, Sonne, are things forgot,
For every man alone thinkes he hath got
To be a Phoenix, and that then can bee
None of that kinde, of which he is, but hee.
This is the worlds condition now, and now
She that ſhould all parts to reunion bow,
She that had all Magnetique force alone,
To draw, and faſten ſundred parts in one;
She whom wiſe nature had invented then
When ſhe obſerv'd that every ſort of men
Did in their voyage in this worlds Sea ſtray,
And needed a new compaſſe for their way;
She that was beſt, and firſt originall
Of all faire copies, and the generall
Steward to Fate; ſhe whoſe rich eyes, and breaſt,
Guilt the Weſt-Indies, and perfum'd the Eaſt,
Whoſe having breath'd in this world, did beſtow
Spice on thoſe Iles, and bad them ſtill ſmell ſo,
And that rich Indie which doth gold interre,
Is but as ſingle money coyn'd from her:
She to whom this world muſt it ſelfe refer,
As Suburbs, or the Microcoſme of her,
Shee, ſhee is dead; ſhee's dead: when thou knoweſt this
Thou knoweſt how lame a criple this world is.
And learn'ſt thus much by our Anatomy,
That this worlds generall ſickneſſe doth not lie
In any humour, or one certaine part;
But as thou ſaweſt it rotten at the heart,
Thou ſeeſt a Hectique feaver hath got hold
Of the whole ſubſtance, not to be contrould,
And that thou haſt but one way, not t'admit
The worlds infection, to be none of it.
For the worlds ſubtilſt immateriall parts
Feele this conſuming wound, and ages darts.
For the worlds beauty is decai'd, or gone,
Disformity of parts.Beauty, that's colour, and proportion.
We thinke the heavens enjoy their Sphericall
Their round proportion embracing all,
But yet their various and perplexed courſe,
Obſerv'd in divers ages, doth enforce
Men to finde out ſo many Eccentrique parts,
Such divers downe right lines, ſuch overthwarts,
As diſproportion that pure forme: It teares
The Firmament in eight and forty ſheires,
And in theſe Conſtellations then ariſe
New ſtarres, and old doe vaniſh from our eyes:
As though heav'n ſuffered earthquakes, peace or war,
When new Towers riſe, and old demoliſh't are.
They have impal'd within a Zodiake
The free-borne Sun, and keepe twelve Signes awake
To watch his ſteps; the Goat and Crab controule,
And fright him backe, who elſe to either Pole
(Did not theſe tropiques fetter him) might runne:
For his courſe is not round; nor can the Sunne
Perfit a Circle, or maintaine his way
One inch direct; but where he roſe to day
He comes no more, but with a couzening line,
Steales by that point, and ſo is Serpentine:
And ſeeming weary with his reeling thus,
He meanes to ſleepe, being now falne nearer us.
So, of the Starres which boaſt that they doe runne
In Circle ſtill, none ends where he begun.
All their proportion's lame, it ſinkes, it ſwels.
For of Meridians, and Parallels,
Man hath weav'd out a net, and this net throwne
Upon the Heavens, and now they are his owne.
Loth to goe up the hill, or labour thus
To goe to heaven, we make heaven come to us.
We ſpur, we reine the ſtarres, and in their race
They're diverſly content t'obey our peace.
But keepes the earth her round proportion ſtill?
Doth not a Tenarus or higher hill
Riſe ſo high like a Rocke, that one might thinke
The floating Moone would ſhipwrack there & ſinke?
Seas are ſo deepe, that Whales being ſtrucke to day,
Perchance to morrow ſcarſe at middle way
Of their wiſh'd journies end, the bottome, die.
And men, to ſound depths, ſo much line untie,
As one might juſtly thinke, that there would riſe
At end thereof, one of th'Antipodies:
If under all, a vault infernall bee,
(Which ſure is ſpacious, except that we
Invent another torment, that there muſt
Millions into a ſtraight hot roome be thruſt)
Then ſolidneſſe, and roundneſſe have no place.
Are theſe but warts, and pockholes in the face
Of th'earth; Thinke ſo: but yet confeſſe, in this
The worlds proportion disfigured is;
Diſorder in the world.That thoſe two legges whereon it doth rely,
Reward and puniſhment are bent awry.
And, Oh, it can no more be queſtioned,
That beauties beſt, proportion, is dead,
Since even griefe it ſelfe, which now alone
Is left us, is without proportion.
Shee by whoſe lines proportion ſhould bee
Examin'd, meaſure of all Symmetree,
Whom had that Ancient ſeen, who thought ſoules mad…
Of Harmony, he would at next have ſaid
That Harmony was ſhee, and thence infer
That ſoules were but Reſultances from her,
And did from her into our bodies goe,
As to our eyes, the formes from objects flow:
Shee, who if thoſe great Doctors truly ſaid
That the Arke to mans proportion was made,
Had been a type for that, as that might be
A type of her in this, that contrary
Both Elements and Paſſions liv'd at peace
In her, who caus'd all Civill war to ceaſe.
Shee, after whom, what forme ſoe'r we ſee,
Is diſcord, and rude incongruitie;
She, ſhe is dead, ſhe's dead; when thou know'ſt this,
Thou knoweſt how ugly a monſter this world is:
And learn'ſt thus much by our Anatomie,
That here is nothing to enamour thee:
And that, not only faults in inward parts,
Corruptions in our braines, or in our hearts,
Poyſoning the fountaines, whence our actions ſpring,
Endanger us: but that if every thing
Be not done fitly'and in proportion,
To ſatisfie wiſe, and good lookers on,
(Since moſt men be ſuch as moſt thinke they bee)
They're lothſome too, by this deformitie.
For good, and well, muſt in our actions meet;
Wicked is not much worſe then indiſcreet.
But beauties other ſecond Element,
Colour, and luſtre now, is as neere ſpent.
And had the world his juſt proportion,
Were it a ring ſtill, yet the ſtone is gone.
As a compaſſionate Turcoyſe which doth tell
By looking pale, the wearer is not well,
As gold falls ſicke being ſtung with Mercury,
All the worlds parts of ſuch complexion bee.
When nature was moſt buſie, the firſt weeke,
Swadling the new borne earth, God ſeem'd to like
That ſhe ſhould ſport her ſelfe ſometimes, and play,
To mingle, and vary colours every day:
And then, as though ſhee could not make enough,
Himſelfe his various Rainbow did allow,
Sight is the nobleſt ſenſe of any one,
Yet ſight hath only colour to feed on,
And colour is decai'd: ſummers robe growes
Duskie, and like an oft dyed garment ſhowes.
Our bluſhing red, which us'd in cheekes to ſpred,
Is inward ſunke, and only our ſoules are red.
Perchance the world might have recovered,
If ſhe whom we lament had not beene dead:
But ſhee, in whom all white, and red, and blew
(Beauties ingredients) voluntary grew,
As in an unvext Paradiſe; from whom
Did all things verdure, and their luſtre come,
Whoſe compoſition was miraculous,
Being all colour, all diaphanous,
(For Ayre, and Fire but thick groſſe bodies were,
And livelieſt ſtones but drowſie, and pale to her,)
She, ſhe is dead; ſhee's dead: when thou know'ſt this,
Thou knoweſt howwan a Ghoſt this our world is:
And learn'ſt thus much by our Anatomie,
That it ſhould more affright, then pleaſure thee.
And that, ſince all faire colour then did ſinke,
'Tis now but wicked vanitie, to thinke
Weakneſſe in the want of correſpondence of heaven and earth.To colour vicious deeds with good pretence,
Or with bought colors to illude mens ſenſe.
Nor in ought more this worlds decay appeares,
Then that her influence the heav'n forbeares,
Or that the Elements doe not feele this,
The father, or the mother barren is.
The cloudes conceive not raine, or doe not powre,
In the due birth time, downe the balmy ſhowre;
Th'ayre doth not motherly ſit on the earth,
To hatch her ſeaſons, and give all things birth;
Spring-times were common cradles, but are tombes;
And falſe-conceptions fill the generall wombes;
Th'ayre ſhowes ſuch Meteors, as none can ſee,
Not only what they meane, but what they bee;
Earth ſuch new wormes, as would have troubled much
Th'Aegyptian Mages to have made more ſuch.
What Artiſt now dares boaſt that he can bring
Heaven hither, or conſtellate any thing,
So as the influence of thoſe ſtarres may bee
Impriſon'd in an Hearbe, or Charme or Tree,
And doe by touch, all which thoſe ſtars could doe?
The art is loſt, and correſpondence too.
For heaven gives little, and the earth takes leſſe,
And man leaſt knowes their trade and purpoſes.
If this commerce twixt heaven and earth were not
Embarr'd, and all this traffique quite forgot,
She, for whoſe loſſe we have lamented thus,
Would worke more fully, and pow'rfully on us:
Since herbes, and roots, by dying loſe not all,
But they, yea aſhes too, are medicinall,
Death could not quench her vertue ſo, but that
It would be (if not follow'd) wondred at:
And all the world would be one dying ſwan,
To ſing her funerall praiſe, and vaniſh than.
But as ſome Serpents poyſon hurteth not,
Except it be from the live Serpent ſhot,
So doth her vertue need her here, to fit
That unto us; ſhee working more then it.
But ſhee, in whom to ſuch maturity
Vertue was growne, paſt growth, that it muſt die;
She, from whoſe influence all impreſſion came,
But by receivers impotencies, lame,
Who, though ſhe could not tranſubſtantiate
All ſtates to gold, yet guilded every ſtate,
So that ſome Princes have ſome temperance;
Some Counſellers ſome purpoſe to advance
The common profit; and ſome people have,
Some ſtay, no more then Kings ſhould give, to crave;
Some women have ſome taciturnity,
Some nunneries ſome graines of chaſtitie.
She that did thus much, and much more could doe,
But that our age was Iron, and ruſtie too,
Shee, ſhe is dead, ſhe's dead; when thou knowſt this,
Thou knowſt how drie a Cinder this world is.
And learn'ſt thus much by our Anatomy,
That 'tis in vaine to dew, or mollifie
It with thy teares, or ſweat, or blood: nothing
Is worth our travaile, griefe, or periſhing,
But thoſe rich joyes, which did poſſeſſe her heart,
Of which ſhe's now partaker, and a part.
Concluſion.But as in cutting up a man that's dead,
The body will not laſt out, to have read
On every part, and therefore men direct
Their ſpeech to parts, that are of moſt effect;
So the worlds carcaſſe would not laſt, if I
Were punctuall in this Anatomy;
Nor ſmels it well to hearers, if one tell
Them their diſeaſe, who faine would think thy're well.
Here therefore be the end: and, bleſſed maid,
Of whom is meant what ever hath been ſaid,
Or ſhall be ſpoken well by any tongue,
Whoſe name refines courſe lines, and makes proſe ſong,
Accept this tribute, and his firſt yeares rent,
Who till his darke ſhort tapers end be ſpent,
As oft as thy feaſt ſees this widowed earth,
Will yearely celebrate thy ſecond birth,
That is, thy death; for though the ſoule of man
Be got when man is made, 'tis borne but than
When man doth die; our body's as the wombe,
And, as a Mid-wife, death directs it home.
And you her creatures, whom ſhe workes upon,
And have your laſt, and beſt concoction
From her example, and her vertue, if you
In reverence to her, do thinke it due,
That no one ſhould her praiſes thus rehearſe,
As matter fit for Chronicle, not verſe;
Vouchſafe to call to minde that God did make
A laſt, and laſting'ſt peece, a ſong. He ſpake
To Moſes to deliver unto all,
That ſong, becauſe hee knew they would let fall
The Law, the Prophets, and the Hiſtory,
But keepe the ſong ſtill in their memory:
Such an opinion, in due meaſure, made
Me this great office boldly to invade:
Nor could incomprehenſibleneſſe deterre
Mee, from thus trying to empriſon her,
Which when I ſaw that a ſtrict grave could doe,
I ſaw not why verſe might not do ſo too.
Verſe hath a middle nature, heaven keepes Soules,
The Grave keepes bodies, Verſe the Fame enroules.