the little bones of neck and back,
So by the soul doth death string heaven and earth;
For when our soul enjoys this her third birth
—Creation gave her one, a second, grace—
Heaven is as near and present to her face
As colours are and objects, in a room,
Where darkness was before, when tapers come.
This must, my soul, thy long-short progress be
To advance these thoughts; remember then that she,
She, whose fair body no such prison was,
But that a soul might well be pleased to pass
An age in her; she, whose rich beauty lent
Mintage to other beauties, for they went
But for so much as they were like to her;
She, in whose body—if we dare prefer
This low world to so high a mark as she—
The western treasure, eastern spicery,
Europe, and Afric, and the unknown rest
Were easily found, or what in them was best;
—And when we have made this large discovery
Of all, in her some one part then will be
Twenty such parts, whose plenty and riches is
Enough to make twenty such worlds as this—
She, whom had they known, who did first betroth
The tutelar angels, and assign’d one, both
To nations, cities, and to companies,
To functions, offices, and dignities,
And to each several man, to him, and him,
They would have given her one for every limb;
She, of whose soul, if we may say, ’twas gold,
Her body was th’ electrum, and did hold
Many degrees of that; we understood
Her by her sight; her pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought
That one might almost say, her body thought;
She, she thus richly and largely housed, is gone;
And chides us slow-paced snails who crawl upon
Our prison’s prison, earth, nor think us well,
Longer than whilst we bear our brittle shell.
But ’twere but little to have changed our room,
If, as we were in this our living tomb
Oppress’d with ignorance, we still were so.
Poor soul, in this thy flesh what dost thou know?
Thou know’st thyself so little, as thou know’st not
How thou didst die, nor how thou wast begot.
Thou neither know’st how thou at first camest in
Nor how thou took’st the poison of man’s sin;
Nor dost thou—though thou know’st that thou art So—
By what way thou art made immortal, know.
Thou art too narrow, wretch, to comprehend
Even thyself, yea though thou wouldst but bend
To know thy body. Have not all souls thought
For many ages, that our bodies wrought
Of air, and fire, and other elements?
And now they think of new ingredients;
And one soul thinks one, and another way
Another thinks, and ’tis an even lay.
Know’st thou but how the stone doth enter in
The bladder’s cave, and never break the skin?
Know’st thou how blood, which to the heart doth flow,
Doth from one ventricle to th’ other go?
And for the putrid stuff which thou dost spit,
Know’st thou how thy lungs have attracted it?
There are no passages, so that there is
—For aught thou know’st—piercing of substances.
And of those many opinions which men raise
Of nails and hairs, dost thou know which to praise?
What hope have we to know ourselves, when we
Know not the least things which for our use be?
We see in authors, too stiff to recant,
A hundred controversies of an ant;
And yet one watches, starves, freezes, and sweats,
To know but catechisms and alphabets
Of unconcerning things, matters of fact,
How others on our stage their parts did act,
What Caesar did, yea, and what Cicero said.
Why grass is green, or why our blood is red,
Are mysteries which none have reach’d unto.
In this low form, poor soul, what wilt thou do?
When wilt thou shake off this pedantry,
Of being taught by sense and fantasy?
Thou look’st through spectacles; small things seem great
Below; but up unto the watchtower get,
And see all things despoil’d of fallacies;
Thou shalt not peep through lattices of eyes,
Nor hear through labyrinths of ears, nor learn
By circuit or collections to discern.
In heaven thou straight know’st all concerning it,
And what concerns it not shalt straight forget.
There thou—but in no other school—may’st be,
Perchance, as learned and as full as she;
She, who all libraries had throughly read
At home in her own thoughts, and practisèd
So much good as would make as many more;
She, whose example they must all implore,
Who would, or do, or think well, and confess
That all the virtuous actions they express
Are but a new and worse edition
Of her some one thought or one action;
She, who in th’ art of knowing heaven, was grown
Here upon earth to such perfection,
That she hath, ever since to heaven she came
—In a far fairer print—but read the same;
She, she not satisfied with all this weight—
For so much knowledge as would over-freight
Another, did but ballast her—is gone,
As well to enjoy, as get perfection;
And calls us after her, in that she took
(Taking herself) our best and worthiest book.
Return not, my soul, from this ecstasy
And meditation of what thou shalt be,
To earthly thoughts, till it to thee appear
With whom thy conversation must be there.
With whom wilt thou converse? what station
Canst thou choose out, free from infection,
That will not give thee theirs, nor drink in thine?
Shalt thou not find a spongy slack divine
Drink and suck in th’ instructions of great men,
And for the word of God vent them again?
Are there not some courts—and then, no things be
So like as courts—which in this let us see
That wits and tongues of libellers are weak,
Because they do more ill than these can speak?
The poison’s gone through all; poisons affect
Chiefly the chiefest parts, but some effect
In nails, and hairs, yea excrements, will show;
So lies the poison of sin in the most low.
Up, up, my drowsy soul, where thy new ear
Shall in the angels’ songs no discord hear;
Where thou shalt see the blessed mother-maid
Joy in not being that which men have said;
Where she’s exalted, more for being good
Than for her interest of motherhood;
Up to those patriarchs, which did longer sit
Expecting Christ, than they’ve enjoy’d Him yet;
Up to those prophets, which now gladly see
Their prophecies grown to be history;
Up to th’ apostles, who did bravely run
All the sun’s course, with more light than the sun;
Up to those martyrs, who did calmly bleed
Oil to th’ apostles’ lamps, dew to their seed;
Up to those virgins, who thought that almost
They made joint-tenants with the
So by the soul doth death string heaven and earth;
For when our soul enjoys this her third birth
—Creation gave her one, a second, grace—
Heaven is as near and present to her face
As colours are and objects, in a room,
Where darkness was before, when tapers come.
This must, my soul, thy long-short progress be
To advance these thoughts; remember then that she,
She, whose fair body no such prison was,
But that a soul might well be pleased to pass
An age in her; she, whose rich beauty lent
Mintage to other beauties, for they went
But for so much as they were like to her;
She, in whose body—if we dare prefer
This low world to so high a mark as she—
The western treasure, eastern spicery,
Europe, and Afric, and the unknown rest
Were easily found, or what in them was best;
—And when we have made this large discovery
Of all, in her some one part then will be
Twenty such parts, whose plenty and riches is
Enough to make twenty such worlds as this—
She, whom had they known, who did first betroth
The tutelar angels, and assign’d one, both
To nations, cities, and to companies,
To functions, offices, and dignities,
And to each several man, to him, and him,
They would have given her one for every limb;
She, of whose soul, if we may say, ’twas gold,
Her body was th’ electrum, and did hold
Many degrees of that; we understood
Her by her sight; her pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought
That one might almost say, her body thought;
She, she thus richly and largely housed, is gone;
And chides us slow-paced snails who crawl upon
Our prison’s prison, earth, nor think us well,
Longer than whilst we bear our brittle shell.
But ’twere but little to have changed our room,
If, as we were in this our living tomb
Oppress’d with ignorance, we still were so.
Poor soul, in this thy flesh what dost thou know?
Thou know’st thyself so little, as thou know’st not
How thou didst die, nor how thou wast begot.
Thou neither know’st how thou at first camest in
Nor how thou took’st the poison of man’s sin;
Nor dost thou—though thou know’st that thou art So—
By what way thou art made immortal, know.
Thou art too narrow, wretch, to comprehend
Even thyself, yea though thou wouldst but bend
To know thy body. Have not all souls thought
For many ages, that our bodies wrought
Of air, and fire, and other elements?
And now they think of new ingredients;
And one soul thinks one, and another way
Another thinks, and ’tis an even lay.
Know’st thou but how the stone doth enter in
The bladder’s cave, and never break the skin?
Know’st thou how blood, which to the heart doth flow,
Doth from one ventricle to th’ other go?
And for the putrid stuff which thou dost spit,
Know’st thou how thy lungs have attracted it?
There are no passages, so that there is
—For aught thou know’st—piercing of substances.
And of those many opinions which men raise
Of nails and hairs, dost thou know which to praise?
What hope have we to know ourselves, when we
Know not the least things which for our use be?
We see in authors, too stiff to recant,
A hundred controversies of an ant;
And yet one watches, starves, freezes, and sweats,
To know but catechisms and alphabets
Of unconcerning things, matters of fact,
How others on our stage their parts did act,
What Caesar did, yea, and what Cicero said.
Why grass is green, or why our blood is red,
Are mysteries which none have reach’d unto.
In this low form, poor soul, what wilt thou do?
When wilt thou shake off this pedantry,
Of being taught by sense and fantasy?
Thou look’st through spectacles; small things seem great
Below; but up unto the watchtower get,
And see all things despoil’d of fallacies;
Thou shalt not peep through lattices of eyes,
Nor hear through labyrinths of ears, nor learn
By circuit or collections to discern.
In heaven thou straight know’st all concerning it,
And what concerns it not shalt straight forget.
There thou—but in no other school—may’st be,
Perchance, as learned and as full as she;
She, who all libraries had throughly read
At home in her own thoughts, and practisèd
So much good as would make as many more;
She, whose example they must all implore,
Who would, or do, or think well, and confess
That all the virtuous actions they express
Are but a new and worse edition
Of her some one thought or one action;
She, who in th’ art of knowing heaven, was grown
Here upon earth to such perfection,
That she hath, ever since to heaven she came
—In a far fairer print—but read the same;
She, she not satisfied with all this weight—
For so much knowledge as would over-freight
Another, did but ballast her—is gone,
As well to enjoy, as get perfection;
And calls us after her, in that she took
(Taking herself) our best and worthiest book.
Return not, my soul, from this ecstasy
And meditation of what thou shalt be,
To earthly thoughts, till it to thee appear
With whom thy conversation must be there.
With whom wilt thou converse? what station
Canst thou choose out, free from infection,
That will not give thee theirs, nor drink in thine?
Shalt thou not find a spongy slack divine
Drink and suck in th’ instructions of great men,
And for the word of God vent them again?
Are there not some courts—and then, no things be
So like as courts—which in this let us see
That wits and tongues of libellers are weak,
Because they do more ill than these can speak?
The poison’s gone through all; poisons affect
Chiefly the chiefest parts, but some effect
In nails, and hairs, yea excrements, will show;
So lies the poison of sin in the most low.
Up, up, my drowsy soul, where thy new ear
Shall in the angels’ songs no discord hear;
Where thou shalt see the blessed mother-maid
Joy in not being that which men have said;
Where she’s exalted, more for being good
Than for her interest of motherhood;
Up to those patriarchs, which did longer sit
Expecting Christ, than they’ve enjoy’d Him yet;
Up to those prophets, which now gladly see
Their prophecies grown to be history;
Up to th’ apostles, who did bravely run
All the sun’s course, with more light than the sun;
Up to those martyrs, who did calmly bleed
Oil to th’ apostles’ lamps, dew to their seed;
Up to those virgins, who thought that almost
They made joint-tenants with the
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