And as the man loves least at home to be, That hath a sluttish house haunted with sprites; So she, impatient her own faults to see, Turns from herself, and in strange things delights. For this few know themselves: for merchants broke And while the face of outward things we find, Yet if Affliction once her wars begin, And threat the feebler sense with sword and fire, The mind contracts herself, and shrinketh in, And to herself she gladly doth retire: As spiders touch'd, seek their web's inmost part; As bees in storms back to their hives return; As blood in danger gathers to the heart; As men seek towns, when foes the country burn. If aught can teach us aught, Affliction's looks, This mistress lately pluck'd me by the ear, And many a golden lesson hath me taught; Hath made my senses quick, and reason clear; Reform'd my will, and rectify'd my thought. So do the winds and thunders cleanse the air: Neither Minerva, nor the learned Muse, She within lists my ranging mind hath brought, I know my body's of so 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 things, I know I'm one of Nature's little kings, I know my life's a pain, and but a span, I know my sense is mock'd in every thing, And to conclude, I know myself a man, Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing. OF THE SOUL OF MAN, AND THE IMMORTALITY THEREOF. THE lights of Heav'n (which are the world's fair eyes) Look down into the world, the world to see; And 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 shine, Mine eyes which view all objects nigh and far, Look not into this little world of mine, Nor see my face, wherein they fixed are. Since Nature fails us in no needful thing, Why want I means my inward self to see? Which sight the knowledge of myself might bring, Which to true wisdom is the first degree. That pow'r which gave me eyes the world to view, Whereby my soul, as by a mirror true, C But as the sharpest eye discerneth nought, O Light, which mak'st the light, which mak'st the day! Which set'st the eye without, and mind within; 'Lighten my spirit with one clear heavenly ray, Which now to view itself doth first begin. For her true form how can my spark discern, Which, dim by nature, art did never clear? When the great wits, of whom all skill we learn, Are ignorant both what she is, and where. One thinks the soul is air; another, fire; And to her essence each doth give a part. Musicians think our souls are harmonies, Some think one gen'ral soul fills ev'ry brain, In judgment of her substance thus they vary, |